


"Ich bin da, Nikolay."

by handsomebastard



Category: T-34 (2019)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Deutsch | German, Fever Dreams, Forest Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Infidelity, Injury, Klaus Jäger - Freeform, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Nazis, Near Death Experiences, Nikolay Ivushkin - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Starvation, Survival, Talking Animals, World War II, Клаус Ягер, николай ивушкин
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsomebastard/pseuds/handsomebastard
Summary: But he is running, running, he is heading toward the end of the bridge, toward the slope leading to the edge of the aqueduct, he is ignoring the screaming ache of his exhausted limbs and the faraway shouts of his comrades as he sprints across raw concrete and then across frost-laden weeds, across bitter soil.What am I doing?He isn’t quite sure, not yet, but he knows that the Panzer fell into the middle of the aqueduct, and that water at temperatures below freezing can induce shock within twenty seconds or less, and if he is too late...(Or, the version of events where, instead of leaving Klaus to his death, Nikolay saves him and in doing so triggers a chain of circumstances that neither of them could ever have predicted.)





	1. Separation

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the ending scene to T-34 that someone posted on YouTube and became rapidly obsessed with these two characters. This is the result of that. I have not translated Klaus' dialogue as I believe it would detract from the perspective of Nikolay, but I am willing to post translations if enough people ask for them.  
> I do not have a beta, so any feedback is more than welcome.

 

Jäger sees him. Looks at him, streaked with blood and mid-snarl, grunting as he fumbles desperately for his pistol. Nikolay can’t have that. He shoulders his weapon and takes a step closer, advancing with his sights trained on the German commander.  
Klaus freezes. Sliding off his tank onto the ground between them, Nikolay comes closer to the ruined Panzer, aiming at him all the while.

The air between them is thick with tension. Klaus glares up at him with emotion hot in his gaze. It is feral. Ugly. Like he can't stand the sight of Nikolay. Perhaps hatred; though humiliation is also possible at this point. A vein jumps in his temple. Blood runs up the side of his face in bold red streaks and the slanted brim of his hat casts a shadow over his eyes when he smirks, malignant, and spits a single word: " _Shieße_."

Nikolay doesn’t need Anya to interpret for him, not this time. He tightens his grip on the gun; blood and sweat making the metal slippery beneath his hands. Indecision clings heavy to his shoulder like some sluggish parasitic creature, leeching off his own sense of honor, feeding gleefully on the helpless vulnerability of a wounded Jäger and whispering into Nikolay’s ear how wrong it would be to shoot such a man. Reminding him also of all the man had done to him.

They stay that way. Staring each other down. Klaus pants heavily, his hat tilted, his shoulders heaving. His blue eyes bright, piercing, as they drill into Nikolay, silently daring him to pull the trigger.  
Nikolay lowers the gun, moving his finger from the trigger. He can’t do it. Not like this.  
Jäger blinks. He looks caught between shock and fury. Another of his schemes foiled by the Russian lieutenant standing before him.

Then, something changes. A smile, slow but sure, spreads across his face, pulling at the scars on his cheek. He tips his head back and laughs. Falls back against the tank with dying chuckles and the rasp of blood-filled lungs. His snorts and wheezing gasps of amusement are the only things that fill the silence of the bridge. With weak arms, he drags himself further upright, still grinning.

The Panzer creaks ominously. The bridge is crumbling beneath it, several fat chunks of concrete tumbling over the edge and down towards the aqueduct below. Klaus looks startled for a moment, shaken, but then his expression clears. He shifts his body toward Nikolay with what seems the last remaining scrap of his strength, making eye contact with him once more but this time with intent.

Yes. This is what Nikolay has been expecting. Any second now, Jäger is sure to make a grab for his pistol while Nikolay's guard is lowered. And Nikolay will be ready. He jerks his head at Klaus, waiting for him to make his move. Asking for it.

The open hand that is then proffered to Nikolay comes as an honest surprise.

It is Nikolay’s turn to be stunned. He blinks, staring at Klaus, disbelieving. The man stares him dead on, a challenge writ clear in the gesture. He doesn’t think Nikolay will do it. He doesn’t think he has it in him to forgive, not after all that Klaus has done. The reasonable thing to do would be to push at the tank, to tip it off the bridge. After all, it wouldn’t take much.

Klaus lies there, panting heavily. His hand outstretched and empty, waiting for Nikolay to...to what? This must be a trap. It has to be.

Nikolay swings his gun behind his back, holstering it, and moves closer to the tank. There is something else in Klaus' look. Something solemn and wordless. It passes from him to Nikolay as he lays there and struggles to breathe, transcending the barriers between Deutsche and Russkiy, and Nikolay, at long last, begins to understand. This is not only a plea for mercy. This is an acknowledgment. A confession.

And Nikolay will listen.

He puts a boot down on the Panzer. It creaks to a halt—still precariously close to the edge of the bridge but not tilting any further downward. He feels momentous. The weight of a man’s life is held in a balance of his making. It is something beyond intimate. With his foot stabilizing the tank, he leans forward, moving without conscious thought.

Their hands meet each other. Despite his current state, Klaus' grip is firm. Commanding. Blood makes his skin sticky where his fingers brush against Nikolay’s own.

Klaus suddenly grips tight with hidden strength, pulling Nikolay closer.

Nikolay takes a sharp breath. His blood runs cold as he realizes the severity of his mistake. Letting his guard down this far in front of his cruelest and most dedicated enemy was an error and now he is in the position to be punished for his naïvety. He tenses up, waiting for the tug that will send him off-balance and falling down into the aqueduct.

It never comes. Klaus instead grins up at him, the sunlight gold on his skin. He grins, and then his face turns serious. He squeezes Nikolay’s hand in his own and shakes it firmly, staring deep into Nikolay’s eyes as he does so.

The release of his hand startles Nikolay, as if he has been expecting to be yanked over the edge of the bridge from someone without enough strength left to haul himself out of a tank, and he is struck dumb by the look of sober acceptance on Klaus’ face: the rueful curve of his lips and the placidity of his gaze. Nikolay’s hands are shaking, the leftover adrenaline from the tank battle catching up with him. It feels like he is on the precipice of waking from a dream.

So when the tank tips, tips, and finally tumbles over the edge of the broken bridge, and it takes Klaus Jäger with it, Nikolay has to take a step back, has to find solid ground, because he has never felt such a sudden, visceral instability wash over him from head to toe as it does just then.

Klaus had looked at him like an equal. Like a _comrade._  The sound of a single great splash as the tank breaches the aqueduct makes Nikolay lurch, crashing back into reality at much too fast a speed, giving him whiplash.

The ensuing silence is deafening and Nikolay peers over the edge, hoping against hope for something he is not even sure he wants. He is shaking, shivering, wracked with some unknown emotion that he cannot overcome.

The water engulfs the tank, obscuring it from view as it sinks below the surface, into the blackness, into nothing.

And then Nikolay is turning around, clambering back up the side of the T-34, he is sticking his hand down the hatch and hollering for someone to pass him his ushanka and whatever medical supplies they can spare, he is ignoring the puzzled questions of his comrades, shoving the meager roll of bandages and two bottles of disinfectant into his returned hat before vaulting back to the ground, landing on unsteady legs.

"What are you doing, Nikolay?"

Stepan’s head emerges from their tank, his face blackened with grime and sweat. The unconscious half-smile on his face a remnant of the rush they'd all experienced when their shot hit its mark and the Panzer veered to the edge of the bridge.

Nikolay wishes he could forget. He wishes he could turn his back on the broken bridge and embrace his comrades, he wishes he could continue towards Czech Slovakia and towards Anya as planned, but he knows, deep down, that his purpose is not yet fulfilled. He cannot go home.

“We won, Stepan. Go. Go now. The village to the southeast, Kraslice. You know it. Go there. Tell her...tell Anya I’m sorry.”

“What? But, Nikolay…”

“Please, Stepan,” says Nikolay, his voice strained. “Just go.”

Stepan pinches his brows together in a frown. He takes in Nikolay’s trembling frame, the ledge behind him where the Panzer had taken a large section of the bridge with it down into the hungry waters of the aqueduct. His frown deepens. “We cannot wait for you here, Nikolay. Whatever you are planning, it doesn’t matter. The Germans, they know where we are. They will come. We must leave.”

“Then leave!” Nikolay yells, unable to bear the unspoken accusation on his friend’s face any longer. His heart aches to stay, to apologize, to beg for forgiveness.

But he is running, running, he is heading toward the end of the bridge, toward the slope leading to the edge of the aqueduct, he is ignoring the screaming ache of his exhausted limbs and the faraway shouts of his comrades as he sprints across raw concrete and then across frost-laden weeds, across bitter soil.

 _What am I doing?_ He isn’t quite sure, not yet, but he knows that the Panzer fell into the middle of the aqueduct, and that water at temperatures below freezing can induce shock within twenty seconds or less, and if he is too late...

The frozen bank of the aqueduct is slippery under his boots, and Nikolay briefly debates internally before yanking them off and tossing them aside along with his overcoat and the few supplies he has on hand. Better not to be weighed down. He must do this quickly or else he too risks dying of hypothermia in the icy depths of the water.

He stands there in his underclothes, with naught but his own determination to protect him, and wades into the water. It is so cold that it _burns_ and he bites at his tongue to silence a gasp. The taste of copper fills his mouth and he takes one last shaky breath before he dives in completely.

The Panzer had sunk on its back, and Klaus had been trapped underneath, his lower half still caught in the open hatch. The structure of the tank had created a pocket of space that prevented his body from being crushed. He looked like he was asleep; the facsimile of peacefulness on his face was more disturbing than any twisted mask of rage had ever been. Nikolay had wrested him free of the crumpled war machine, arms wrapped around the man’s torso and legs kicking for dear life. The water closed in on him from all sides, more suffocating than a cloud of toxic gas, and it took all the energy Nikolay had left in his body to swim back to shore with the limp form of Klaus Jäger hauled tight against his chest.

When, with great exertion, he finally pulls Klaus from the aqueduct and lays him down on the hard earth, searching under his jaw for a pulse, he finds only stillness. Klaus is not breathing. His skin has turned deathly pale and is frigid to the touch. The scars on his cheek are stark against his skin and his legs stretch out before him, one bent at an unnatural angle. The fabric of his outer uniform is singed and tattered...and soaked with blood. Looking back, Nikolay can see a trail of it leading all the way down to the edge of the water.

Nikolay quickly divests Klaus of his waterlogged uniform, wadding it up and throwing it off to the side, out of sight. Underneath the green-grey coat, Klaus wears a dress shirt, soaked through and clinging to his skin like wet paper. Nikolay presses his hands there, atop Klaus’ veiled chest, praying for a heartbeat despite all signs pointing to the contrary.

To his astonishment, he feels a stirring in Klaus’ breast. It is faint, but there is an unmistakable flutter of life from within and Nikolay wastes no time turning Klaus’ head to the side.

He remembers precious little about the necessary steps to perform resuscitation, but surely there is no wrong way to save somebody. All he needs to do is pump some air back into the man’s lungs. Not a problem. Water trickles from the open corner of Klaus’ mouth, shot through with a red tinge. It spurs him into action. There’s no time to think about what he is about to do so Nikolay moves Klaus’ head back to the center and, without preamble, presses his lips against Klaus’ own.

It is not in any way a sensual act, which brings Nikolay some small form of justification to combat the wave of embarrassment that washes over him as he slots their mouths together and does his best to force breath into Jäger whilst pinching the man’s nose shut.

Klaus is cold and stiff, much like a corpse, and it takes a lot of willpower for Nikolay not to gag. His lips are clammy but after several passes, they begin to warm from Nikolay’s efforts, slick with water and saliva and blood. It is truly unpleasant. Nikolay doesn’t stop, though. He has come too far to go back now. There is only forward. He will either save Klaus or he won’t, but he cannot rest until an outcome has been reached.

Before long, Nikolay has run out of breath himself, and Klaus looks no better than when he’d first been dragged from the water.

Panicked, Nikolay presses his head to the man’s chest, listening intently. It is there, thank god. A heartbeat. He is filled with new hope and goes in for Klaus’ mouth once more, only to freeze in place when he finds a pair of bewildered blue eyes with dilated pupils staring back at him.

Klaus’ hands scrabble against the damp soil, searching for traction as he processes the scene.

“Was—Was ist… Was ist l-los...” Klaus manages, his words slurred from the cold. The moment the words leave his lips, he begins to shudder, tensing up.

Nikolay senses what is coming and rolls him on his side just in time for the man to cough up violent lungfuls of water.

He turns away and averts his gaze to give Klaus some privacy, but he cannot escape the raw, desperate sounds which tear from Klaus’ throat, forced up his windpipe as his stomach spasms.

Jäger’s body, already so dangerously weak, is wracked with shivering fits, and Nikolay feels an uninvited flush of protectiveness. It makes no sense. This man tried to kill him numerous times, held him prisoner and used him as target practice, chased him down relentlessly, and now that he is more vulnerable than he’s ever been before, Nikolay only wants to help him. Not to hurt him or make him suffer (as he no doubt deserves), but to _heal him_.

After several long minutes, the vomiting eases, reduced to dry-heaving. Nikolay looks. Klaus has collapsed bonelessly against the ground and is squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His whole body is shaking. Nikolay shifts uncomfortably where he crouches in the dirt, feeling every inch the intruder. He’s done his part. Pulled the man from the bottom of the aqueduct and breathed air back into his lungs. Really, he has no good reason to linger. And yet, to leave Klaus like this, helpless and broken, awaiting the inevitable grip of death with only his own thoughts for company—it seems a crueler deed than letting him drown in the first place.

A conundrum of his own making. It is ridiculous. Nikolay scoffs at himself. Too late, he registers his own hand carding through the damp hair on Klaus’ head, sweeping it back from his forehead with mindless repetition. He forces himself to stop. The irony is too great: the last time one of them touched the other in as gentle a manner, it had been Klaus stroking his face after giving him a second chance. Now Nikolay is the one handing out chances as well as caresses, it seems.

Klaus has expelled most of the water by now and looks dead once more. His face is ashen and his only movement comes from the full-body shivers that wrack his frame.

Almost as an afterthought, Nikolay remembers that he too is drenched and horribly cold. The wind bites at his exposed skin and he experiences a pang of sympathy for the way Klaus curls in on himself at the chill of the breeze. Getting to his feet, Nikolay retrieves his clothes. He pulls on his ushanka, stuffing the supplies deep into one of his trouser pockets instead, and uses the coat to wrap around Jäger (who is either unconscious or simply ignoring him).

Klaus stops shivering so terribly, which Nikolay is glad of. He looks up at the sky, which is now painted a crisp grey-blue, the molten hues of the sun hidden by clouds. More time has passed than he expected. A half-hour, at least.

From here he can make out the T-34 where it sits, immobile, on the bridge. His comrades are nowhere in sight. Maybe they've already left. Maybe not.

He knows what terrible things they might call him, should they discover the reason he left them. Should they see him rescuing a Nazi, a muttonhead German who had chased them all the way out here. Traitor. _Vyrodok,_  perhaps. He cannot withstand the heartache that those words would bring. No. Better they part ways, here and now. Nikolay has made his choice and he will honor it proper.

What his choice entails exactly, he does not know; but he can hear Klaus Jäger taking in raspy breaths of air, and knows as long as he can hear that he is not without purpose.

A small movement draws his attention back to the water, where he sees a shape bobbing up and down as it drifts toward the shore. He squints, something familiar about the shape, and once it comes close enough for him to make it out, he laughs inwardly, cursing the irony of the situation. It’s a hat. Not just any hat, however. He recognizes the peaked cap, the shiny brim. Knows the skull pin that is affixed to the front and the splayed wings of the eagle above it.

Nikolay fishes the officer’s hat from the water and, instead of tossing it back as his every instinct is screaming at him to do, he tucks it away in his pocket; out of sight, an answered accusation.

The taste of copper is heavy where it sits on his tongue.


	2. Preparation

 

Nikolay Ivushkin considers himself an honorable man. He had told Stepan and the others to leave without him and he does not regret it too sorely. Going after Klaus was his decision, and he would not want his friends to suffer on his account. Although it had been difficult to part ways, it had been for the best, and Nikolay knows they will not soon forget him just as he will not forget them.

His purpose now that he has pulled Klaus from the aqueduct is less clear than he would like to admit. The half-dead man lying before him has done him more injustices than Nikolay cares to remember, and for the past few weeks has made his life hell. And yet, and _yet_ …

A small part of him—the part that cringes from hardship and nags at his thoughts like a whining cur beaten one too many times, the part of him that remembers the torture and the whipping and the sting of shrapnel—wishes to turn tail and leave Jäger to the slow death hypothermia will bring; but that is the coward’s way out, and Nikolay Ivushkin is no coward. He is an honorable man and will do what he must, no matter how his heart yearns for Czech Slovakia and for Anya’s embrace.

He leans forward and puts his head in his hands, allowing himself a moment of brief resignation, before collecting himself and preparing to do what must be done.

For the past seven hours, give or take, he has been making the edge of the wooded area near the aqueduct into a temporary campsite: setting up a makeshift bed and scrounging together a respectable heap of not-too-damp firewood, tentatively bandaging Klaus’ legs (one of which he is pretty sure is broken) and feeding him water drop-by-drop from his flask. He used up both bottles of disinfectant on himself and Klaus, coating the worst of the open wounds that ravage Klaus’ body. His own hurts hardly trouble him, being mostly bruises.

The little hamlet of Klingenthal on the other side of the aqueduct seems an innocent enough place to seek shelter, and the thought of sleeping under a roof is tempting, but Nikolay is leery of staying there after the Nazi ambush; especially when he would have to somehow transport the weight of a comatose man up and across the bridge without aggravating said man’s wounds more than he already has.

Probably better to stay away from the village at this point anyway. The Germans already used it to trap him once; they might do it again. Ending up back in a camp is the last thing he wants now that he has achieved his freedom.

He’d had a long time to think after his rescue stunt. Klaus had lain there with him on the shore, still unconscious and injured; Nikolay could not count on his help even if he were to regain consciousness. They were unarmed save for a foldaway boot knife (his gun had been ruined when he dropped it too close to the water before diving in) and alone, most likely being hunted by Jäger’s allies. He could not draw any attention, no matter the situation. He could not carry Jäger—he could barely carry himself.

His only option at that moment was to somehow reach Kraslice. To regroup with his comrades. But he did not know what reception he would have, not if he returned with a live Nazi slung over his shoulder, and it was at least a half day's journey in his weakened condition, and he couldn't just leave Klaus behind.

_Could he?_

Too tired to make up his mind, Nikolay had decided to take Klaus and enter the woods, wanting to be better hidden in case anyone showed up and decided to look for them. He needed to rest and to tend to his own wounds as well as the injuries Klaus had obtained from their tank face-off. A fire and some dry clothing were not out of the question either.

Moving Klaus was easier said than done. He had grabbed the man’s arms, then his legs, struggling to drag his heavy weight toward the trees. Klaus’ wet clothes and his unconscious, frozen state made him even heavier and Nikolay’s numb limbs almost gave out numerous times. After much effort, he maneuvered Klaus under a tree with branches large enough to provide adequate shelter against both the weather and prying eyes. He was utterly exhausted, but at least he felt a little warmer. Though it was still very cold.

The weather has not much improved since then, still far too cold for comfort. Thankfully, the small fire he had managed to spark has not attracted any undue attention thus far; though, to be safe, he keeps it lit for only long enough to melt the worst of the frost from his overcoat.

He has a couple of rations, namely a small tin of canned beets and a few crumpled packs of Stepan’s tobacco. As long as Klaus remains unconscious the beets are useless to him, so Nikolay eats them himself, squeezing the leftover liquid into Klaus’ mouth much as he did with the water, hoping that maybe beet juice is good for broken bones.

On the eighth hour Nikolay is sitting at Klaus’ side after the temperature dips, staving off the cold by sharing what little body heat he can manage to produce and kneading Klaus’ fingers to prevent rigor, only to awaken with a jolt and realize that he had drifted off to sleep at some point with Klaus’ head in his lap and their fingers intertwined. The sun has just begun to cross below the horizon, feathering the sky in bright shades of red and purple.

He removes one of his hands and pushes it through his own hair, wincing at the oily texture. A warm bath would be nice. A warm _anything_ would be nice. He would even light another fire if he were not so paranoid of discovery.

Nikolay makes to move away from Klaus, wanting to stand up and stretch his cramped limbs, but is caught and held by hands that tighten fast around his own: Jäger is awake as well, and watching him through slitted eyes.

He gathers himself as best he can under the circumstances.

“Jäger,” Nikolay says, unsure. “Hello.”

Klaus blinks, licks his dry lips, but says nothing in response. He is very obviously not in his right mind at the moment—his reflexes seem sluggish and his pupils are ridiculously large. He swallows once, twice, with difficulty.

Nikolay shifts uncomfortably, wanting to extract his hand from the other man’s grip and distance himself from what he must do, but there is nothing for it. He sits there on the scrappy bed of leaves and avoids Jäger’s eyes as he brings an arm around him and supports him to sit upright, propping him up as best he can with the soiled remains of his own overcoat, and then bringing the flask of water to Jäger’s lips.

Klaus hesitates for only a moment before drinking eagerly, and Nikolay finds himself murmuring _good, that’s good_ as he would to one of his comrades under his care. That thought shuts him up real fast.

He catches Klaus’ eye briefly and turns away.

Once Klaus has had his fill Nikolay eases him back onto his side, picking up the coat and tucking it over him once more. Then he speaks, addressing a low-hanging branch above Klaus’ head.

“I… I don’t know why I’m here. Why I stayed… I don’t know why you let go of my hand, either. Why would you do that? You, who hated me, who tried to kill me and my friends, who stopped at _nothing_ to hunt me down.” He meets Klaus’ gaze now, all of a sudden filled with a burning curiosity. “Why would you let me go?”

Klaus stares back at him, silent. Then, for the first time since waking, he speaks.

“... Ich kann kein Russisch sprechen.”

Nikolay groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He might as well have asked the same questions to a tree stump. It’s no use, speaking to someone who only understands German. Not for the first time, he thinks of Anya. She was always so calm, confident, so collected and so clever. He knows she would be able to translate Klaus’ foreign tongue with ease. She would also know more about treating broken bones, probably. Better than him, at any rate. He eyes Klaus’ legs with a faint wince.

Jäger follows his line of sight to the bloodied bandages covering both of his legs and swallows in trepidation. He rises up on his elbows and tries to move, only to stiffen up and make a pained noise in the back of his throat.

“Stop that,” says Nikolay, pushing him back down again. “Just stay still.”

Klaus glowers at him. “Nimm deine Hände von mir, Ivan.”

Ivan. Finally, a word Nikolay can understand. Definitely not one he was hoping to hear, though. “Oh, so that’s how it is going to be, eh, _Fritz_? I save your life and you, what, insult me? Glare at me?”

Klaus, pointedly, does not respond.

Nikolay feels a flash of irritation both toward the German and toward himself. Why did he do this? Saving a man who had been doggedly hunting him and his comrades down with the intent to wipe them off the face of the earth—pure madness. And here is the fruit of his efforts: a crippled Nazi soldier with a sour attitude who doesn't even speak the same language as him. He might as well have let Jäger drown.

Nikolay regrets that thought as soon as it comes to him. Of course he should not have let Klaus drown. That would have been cruel, and Nikolay is not a cruel man. Stubborn, maybe, but not cruel.

He watches as Klaus makes a rude hand gesture at him and flops back onto the bed of leaves, tugging Nikolay’s coat more securely around himself. It is a pathetic sight. But, then again, supposes Nikolay, he must be as well. The cold and the exhaustion have already taken a toll on his body, turning his fingers and toes to ice while his skin deadens and his energy dwindles. It is like being back in the prison camp all over again.

Then again, it's not like Nikolay is trapped with Klaus. This is a situation he can escape simply by turning his back on the wounded German and following the road all the way to Czech Slovakia. After all, Klaus is awake now and might be able to handle himself if left alone.

He side-eyes Jäger, who is currently bundled tight in the tatty overcoat and giving the bush closest to him a ferocious stare as if being unreasonably angry will somehow make him warmer.

Something tells Nikolay that, were he to leave, Klaus would not even attempt to stave off his own death. He might even welcome it, as he did on the bridge. It is this thought, more than anything, that decides him. He will stay.

The sun has dropped from the sky entirely, leaving only blushing shades of deep violet in its wake. It is beautiful, but also reminds Nikolay of how much time they have spent sitting here next to the aqueduct. They need to leave. The German forces will be here anon, and they will see the bridge. They will come looking for them in the morning, and if Nikolay is not gone by then, he will be captured once more. Or killed. He doesn’t know which would be worse.

He doesn’t want to further aggravate Klaus’ wounds by dragging him all the way up to the bridge, but he also cannot wait here and pray not to be noticed when German troops arrive. It is a bad situation to be in.

Nikolay squints at Klaus, warning him without words not to try anything stupid, before walking off toward the aqueduct. They need more water, and he needs time to think.

He runs over every option mentally. Unfortunately, the selection is rather limited. The smartest thing to do would be to leave Klaus for dead and ensure his own survival. Yet clearly he cannot do that, because the guilt already gnawing away at his chest would never leave him. It is a frustrating paradox.  
  
Gnawing at his lip, Nikolay refills the flask and stomps back over to the makeshift shelter. Klaus watches him the whole way, his gaze fixed. It is going to be a long time until Nikolay can sleep without the feeling of those horrible blue eyes lingering on him in his dreams. In the meantime, supposes Nikolay, the best he can do is to put up with it for now.

“Alright, Jäger,” Nikolay says, already dreading what must come next. “I know you do not understand me, but I need you to be still. I must re-bandage and splint your legs. If I do not, you won’t be able to walk, and I cannot carry you.”

He gestures to Klaus’ legs, trying to impart the meaning behind his words. Klaus looks down, and then back to Nikolay, clearly not understanding.

“Bandage. Your. Legs.”

This does not help. If anything, Klaus looks even more confused.

With a heavy sigh, Nikolay turns to root through his pockets, fumbling around until he feels the tight wad of bandages he had stuffed there. He pulls them out and uses them to point at Klaus’ legs. As an added measure, he mimics rolling them around an invisible limb.

Finally, Klaus gets it. His expression clears and he says, “Das verstehe ich. Bitte sehr.”

He sits up as best he’s able, tugging Nikolay’s coat from his legs with a noticeable wince. The bandages that Nikolay wrapped over burned skin about six hours earlier are soaked through with red and smell strongly of disinfectant with an underlying note of something fouler. Slowly, Nikolay unwraps them and sets them aside. The blood, he discovers, originates from multiple gashes at various places along Klaus’ legs that are visible through the shreds on his trousers.

When Nikolay draws nearer to his left shin, the one that is swollen bigger than the other, Klaus reaches out a hand and stops him. “Nikolay. Ich glaube, mein Bein ist gebrochen. Sei vorsichtig, ja?”

“I must, Jäger.” He pushes Klaus’ hand out of the way.

Klaus’ pained expression morphs into one of agony when Nikolay peels away the dirty bandages and blackened layers of flesh slough off with them. The foul smell—rancid, rotting meat—hits him full force and causes Nikolay to gag. He steels himself and rolls up the leg of Klaus’ trousers to expose the swelling underneath. Broken, without a doubt. Nikolay sees the way the shin bends irregularly, the lump where the bone pushes against skin. He is unsurprised that it is so severely distended: the area around the break is mottled hideous shades of yellow and blue, more bruise than skin at this point.

He moves to place a stick against the leg. A temporary splint. It is not ideal, but they have no other options and Klaus will fare far better with it than without.

Simply touching Klaus’ wounded leg causes the man to flinch. “Scheiße! Tut das weh,” he snarls, his chest heaving and eyes wide with pain. “Ivushkin! Ich habe dir gesagt, du sollst vorsichtig sein?”

Nikolay sets his jaw, determined. This is the only way they will be able to reach Kraslice since he cannot in good consciousness abandon Jäger to the metaphorical (or perhaps even literal) wolves. Though he has never tended to an injury like this before, he is relatively confident. After all, it is not like he can do _more_ damage; the leg is already as broken as it can get. It will be fine. He’s sure of it.

First thing’s first. He positions his hands on either side of the break. He glances up at Klaus, who is staring back with consternation writ in his gaze. And then he snaps the bone back into place.

Jäger _howls_.

Nikolay splints up the leg and wraps it with fresh bandages as tightly as he can, as quickly as he can, because Klaus is gasping and there are tears leaking from his eyes, making tracks in the layers of grime that cover his face. He seems on the verge of losing consciousness. Klaus keeps making tiny wounded noises in the aftermath, head pressed back against the bed of leaves, fingers clenching and unclenching in the dirt at his sides, teeth digging into his own lower lip hard enough to draw blood and his expression screwed tight.

“Bravo, Ivushkin,” he bites out, managing to sound sarcastic even as he is overwhelmed with pain. “Du hättest Arzt werden sollen.”

After finishing the bandages, Nikolay withdraws from Klaus and retrieves the water flask, offering it to him. Klaus grabs at it, but his hands are shaking so badly he can’t grip the flask. It is strange to see him acting so weak and pitiful, and Nikolay ends up tilting the water into Klaus’ mouth. The man takes several greedy swallows and when he is done his lips are as shiny as his tear-stained cheeks. His brow is knit and his skin glistens with sweat.

An uninvited sense of guilt creeps into Nikolay’s chest only for Nikolay to push it deep, deep down. He feels the need to say something to Jäger, anything, so he exercises one of the few scraps of German he’s picked up over the years and asks, tentatively: “Um. Gut? Du bist...gut?”

Klaus blinks at him, shocked, before exploding into laughter that teeters on the edge of delirious. His eyes crinkle at the corners and, for a moment, it seems his discomfort is forgotten.

“Gut, ausgezeichnet!”

Nikolay regrets saying anything in the first place. He dislikes that familiar gap-toothed grin; dislikes, too, the easiness with which Klaus smiles at the man who decommissioned his tank and almost killed him in the first place. It is not sensible. Just because Nikolay did not leave Klaus to die alone does not make them drinking buddies, or allies even. Nikolay is simply doing the right thing. The honorable thing.

He did not save Klaus so that Klaus could be his… _friend_.

Klaus is still laughing, but softer now, and addresses Nikolay as if they share a language and can understand each other. “Das ist süß, Ivushkin. Es ist jämmerlich, aber süß.”

His scars pull taut whenever his lips move, creating the illusion that they are splitting further open every time he smiles (which he is still doing, hasn’t stopped doing, even as he gazes right into Nikolay’s eyes). It is jarring and Nikolay is inexplicably reminded of an old story, one his mother used to tell him on chilly winter nights, of a wounded lion with a thorn in its paw; once the thorn was removed and the wound was healed, the lion became docile. Tame, even.

He wonders if Klaus Jäger could ever be tame.

“Mehr haben Sie nicht drauf? _‘Gut_?’ Wie schade. Vielleicht solltest du ein bisschen mehr trainieren.”

“For the last time, I have no idea what you are saying,” replies Nikolay. “But at least your leg will not be healing crooked when we make for higher ground. Now, for the love of god, shut up, and get some rest. We leave at first light.”


	3. Tribulation

 

When Nikolay wakes up in the morning, Klaus Jäger is dead.

Or, at least, that is what Nikolay first thinks when he opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of Klaus’ body lying stock-still on the makeshift bed of dirt and leaves. His clothes have been completely crusted over with ice sometime during the night, and his skin has gone a ghastly whitish-blue shade befitting that of a corpse.

There is a moment where Nikolay sits there and stares, paralyzed, before gritting his teeth and forcing himself to concentrate. Whether or not Klaus is dead, panic will not improve the situation. 

Loosening the frozen collar of Klaus’ uniform (he  _ knew  _ he should have let it dry for longer than he had; stupid, really) Nikolay presses his fingertips against various places on Klaus’ neck just like he had after pulling him from the water, then he pulls up Klaus’ frozen sleeves with effort and touches the man’s wrists, searching for a pulse. But Nikolay’s fingers are numb, and Klaus’ skin is so cold that Nikolay cannot feel anything. 

He leans over Klaus’ body and presses his cheek, and then his ear, right below Klaus’ nose. It may well be his imagination, but he thinks he feels a faint brush of air ghost across his skin.

Nikolay peels back the ice-crusted uniform to expose Klaus’ dress shirt and parts the fabric so he can lean in and press his ear to Klaus’ bare chest.  _ Please don’t be dead. _ He winces at the shock of cold from Klaus’ skin, and he listens, but he cannot hear a heartbeat. 

Blood rushes to Nikolay’s ears and the sound of his own ragged breathing drowns out the rest of the world. It feels like being back inside the T-34, trapped in a tight space with no room to escape and walls pressing in on all sides, the constant thunder of the machinery loud enough to  _ hurt  _ as it invades his senses. 

Nikolay closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down. To focus. 

After an excruciating few moments, he picks up on it: a faint beat, slow and quiet and at odds with the rhythm of his own heart, but a beat nevertheless. Klaus has a heartbeat. He is still alive.

Nikolay keeps his ear pressed to Klaus’ chest for a moment longer, simply listening. He cannot identify the reason why the sound comforts him so. When he finally raises his head and looks down at Klaus, the panic in his breast has burned itself out and been replaced with exhaustion. Hard to believe he was ever scared in the first place. 

Nikolay blinks a couple of times, studying the patterns of dirt and blood that cover Klaus’ face. Light filters through the trees, dappling his skin with shadow and framing his scars in a patchwork of pinks and yellows.

The sun has already risen far higher in the sky than Nikolay wanted it to and now, when they leave, they will not have the cover of darkness to disguise them.  _ If  _ they leave. He is ready, but Klaus… Klaus was already weak, suffering from a broken leg. Now he is most likely suffering from advanced hypothermia, too. Nikolay wants to scream. It was a bad idea to leave his comrades. To go after Jäger when the man had done nothing but cause him trouble again and again. Maybe this is a sign. If Jäger does not wake up soon, then maybe there is nothing Nikolay can do but accept it and move on.

It is in this moment that Klaus chooses to gasp suddenly, suck in a deep breath, then dissolve into a fit of coughing. Nikolay cannot quite decide if he is pleased or not at this turn of events, but the weak flutter of Klaus’ eyes, frost clinging to his lashes, has him experiencing a rush of concern that leaves him reeling.

“Klaus,” he says, his hands still resting awkwardly on the man’s bare chest. “Klaus, you’re awake. Can you hear me? Jäger?”

Klaus moans, his eyes opening and closing slowly. 

Nikolay jumps up and, with strength he did not know he had, he lifts Klaus’ torso, dragging him closer to the nearby tree so Klaus can lean his head against it and sit up. Jäger protests, wincing and gasping pathetically, but Nikolay knows better than to let him slip off into sleep again, not when he is this cold. Should that happen, it might prove impossible to wake him a second time.

Nikolay crouches down and grabs Klaus’ face between his palms, squinting at him.

“Jäger, it is morning.” No response. 

“Jäger, the Germans will come. We must leave, now.” Still nothing.

Feeling a new surge of panic, Nikolay slaps Klaus a couple of times, as firmly as he dares. Klaus moans and,  _ finally _ , turns toward Nikolay, his face still captured between Nikolay’s palms. His eyes are shut but his brow still furrows in recognition.

“Nikolay?” Klaus murmurs.

“Yes,” Nikolay says, breathing a bit easier. “Okay, you remember me. That’s good. That is very good, Jäger. Very good. I need you to listen to me, okay? Achten, ja? Okay, listen: We. Have. To. Leave. Now.”

Jäger’s eyes are glassy when he finally opens them. 

“Meine Güte, sieh dich an.” He raises a shaky hand and, before Nikolay can stop him, strokes along the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Noch hier, nach allem, was geschehen ist. Vielleicht bist du ja mein Schutzengel.” 

Jäger then snickers to himself, pleased, as if he has just made a particularly clever joke (though, even if he had, Nikolay has no way of knowing). His finger continues downward, brushing Nikolay’s lips before his hand drops limply to his side. Nikolay is left with the strong urge to slap him again but settles for rolling his eyes instead. 

As far as he can tell, the bridge is still empty. The T-34 sits guard, a lone sentinel against the coming storm. He prays that Stepan and Serafim obeyed his orders; that they are long gone, having already met back up with Anya and made it safely to Kraslice without him. Nikolay wants to pack up camp, to somehow bring along the makeshift bed and all the firewood he had collected, but there’s no time to waste. No time to cover their tracks, or defrost their clothes, or even to try and scavenge some food before the journey. They must leave  _ now _ .

Nikolay recoils at first when Klaus’ arms wrap around his neck, but he swallows his dignity with some effort and pulls the man close against his chest, helping him to stand on bandaged and splinted legs.

They stay like that for a tense few seconds, trapped in an embrace as Klaus pants and coughs against Nikolay’s ear. Nikolay feels like he is hugging a block of ice, but nonetheless, he keeps his hold tight around Klaus’ waist and ends up with a faceful of short, mousy brown hair as a result. Klaus smells like the woods, like rain-damp soil and linden tree leaves, and not at all like the smoke of his pipe as he had back in the camp.

Nikolay can feel Klaus’ lean muscles contracting under his hands as they stand together, and he forces himself to concentrate on anything but the way that their bodies crush tight against one another.  _ This is necessary _ , he tells himself with conviction.

“Okay, Jäger. Come on.” 

He turns to walk in the sloping direction of the bridge, expecting Klaus to take a step with him. Instead, the man sags like a puppet with cut strings.

“Shit!” Nikolay struggles to remain upright with Klaus’ weight dragging him down. Klaus still has one arm wrapped around Nikolay’s neck and seems to be barely hanging on to consciousness. 

Nikolay sighs inwardly; outwardly, too. It appears he will be carrying Jäger, after all. He sets his jaw and takes a step forward, forcing Klaus to stumble along. 

“Wir bist nicht unterzukriegen, du und ich,” Klaus slurs as they limp together slowly through the trees. “Ich habe dich erschossen. Du hast mich zerstört… Und dennoch, sind wir hier. Wie in alten Zeiten. Ja, Nikolay?” 

He grins lopsidedly up at Nikolay and something about it sets Nikolay on edge. There’s a knowingness in Klaus’ gaze that shouldn’t exist, a glint of insinuation that has Nikolay redoubling their pace despite the whine he receives from Klaus.

“Come on, you big German idiot. Let’s go.”

They journey southeast, the bridge at their back and the sun covered by clouds. Nikolay sticks to the gutter of bushes and trees that line the road, not wanting to venture too close to the main road and risk discovery. 

It becomes apparent that he had underestimated just how slow a pace they would have to keep. Klaus’ breath comes in faint puffs against his neck and his fingers dig into Nikolay, claw-like, for support. Nikolay has not been so physically close to someone for such a long period of time before, not even with Anya. He tries not to think about that. It is difficult to bear Klaus’ weight and find his own footing at the same time; their uncomfortable proximity only makes the whole situation that much worse. 

The hardest part is making it up the slope and away from the aqueduct. They both concentrate so hard that Nikolay forgets for a moment the solid line of Klaus’ body pressing into his. Once they are on flat ground, however, the going fails to improve.

Klaus, as they continue onward, talks less and less, until finally he is reduced to a scattered handful of wheezes, all of them indecipherable.

“Und jetzt...bin ich tot...und...das hier ist...der...Hölle.” 

“Jäger...if you want to live...then stop. Fucking. Talking.” Nikolay is  _ tired _ , more so than he can remember being in a while, but they cannot stop. He does not want to light a fire and set up camp so close to the main road, but if they do not find a place to rest, and soon, then he fears that the pursuing Germans will be the least of their problems.

“Just...a little further. Come on. Stay...stay with me, Jäger. You hear me?” pants Nikolay. “Just stay with me. Okay? Gut?”

Klaus does not answer.

“I said,  _ gut _ ?” asks Nikolay, the strain of carrying Klaus almost getting to be too much for him to bear. His own legs are wobbling and weak at the knees.

Still nothing. Klaus is dead weight. Not a twitch of movement to be seen.

“Jäger,” Nikolay says, and shakes him forcibly. Klaus’ head lolls on his shoulder and the horrible realization that he might be carrying a corpse takes Nikolay by force. He hauls Klaus’ limp form up against the nearest tree. 

Finally, Klaus responds, raising his head to face Nikolay. The sight of him has Nikolay torn between relief and despair.

Klaus looks ghastly. His eyes are vapid and unfocused, catching the light of the midday sun through the trees when he blinks them open slowly to look at Nikolay. His cheeks are white, the skin turned waxy—frostbite, some faraway clinical part of Nikolay supplies for him—and his lips are parted, bitten raw from where the pain in his legs must have gotten too great.

Klaus’ head droops a little, and Nikolay reaches out to push him back by the forehead; the contact makes Klaus shudder and his eyes flicker closed, expression slack with fatigue.

“I—” Nikolay hears himself mumble, indistinct past the slurred exhaustion in his own voice. “I think… I think we should stop. Soon. We can’t...can’t go on. Like this. It’s too much.”

Klaus offers no argument. 

Nikolay ends up finding a spot where the roots of a massive tree form an overhang sheltered from the biting wind and distanced from the main road. He would rather keep going, all the way until Kraslice, but that is not an option anymore. 

“Okay Klaus,” he says, leading the man down to the overhang. “We have to get you warm. Come on, let’s go. We’ll stop for a bit, and then we’ll continue on. Alright?”

But Klaus cannot sit on his own and Nikolay has to lower him, carefully, to the ground under the roots. “Scheiße,” Klaus hisses on an exhale as he stretches his leg out against the earth. His arms are still wrapped firmly around Nikolay’s neck, forcing Nikolay to crouch. Klaus’ head falls back against the dirt and his eyes drift shut. He is panting heavily, his face paler than ever. A faint sheen covers his skin—either sweat or melted frost, Nikolay isn’t sure.

Klaus is freezing and if his injuries don’t kill him, hypothermia will. If Nikolay could only get a fire going. Or even find them a warmer place to stay, somewhere more sheltered from the elements, somewhere with a proper roof and walls and maybe even a bed of some sort. Huddling underneath a bunch of tree roots is not exactly ideal, but it will have to suffice.

Nikolay shoves the water flask into Klaus’ hands and goes about making a fire. He is kneeling in the dirt, rolling his last dry wad of cotton, when one wrong move sends pain shooting through him. He lets out a strangled grunt and hunches in on himself, clutching at his side.

In the past couple of days, he has not paid much attention to his own injuries. Now, it seems they are making themselves known whether he wants them to or not. 

“Fuck.” Nikolay grits his teeth against another wave of pain and works through the aching protests of his own body, managing at last to spark a small flame that begins devouring the dry bits of twigs and leaves that Nikolay had scraped together. He staggers to his feet, returning to Klaus’ side. Nikolay kneels there on the ground in front of him, vaguely disturbed that his first instinct is to tend to Klaus, and he reaches over to palm at the man’s face, feeling for his temperature. It is still icy cold, and he slaps Klaus’ cheek lightly to rouse him. 

“Klaus.  _ Jäger _ . Stay awake, fuck. You must stay awake.”

Nikolay feels miserable with the situation. He himself is aching from hunger and from the cold, his only company a man who may or may not be deceased. Klaus’ lips are blue and his face is paper white. Touching his skin makes Nikolay shiver sympathetically. It is colder than stone, than even the soil beneath them. Nikolay has not checked for signs of life since he set Klaus down under the overhang. For all Nikolay knows, Klaus has been dead for a while now. He certainly looks the part: lying quietly amidst the roots, his eyes closed and body rigid.

_ No _ . Nikolay pushes those nagging thoughts away. He cannot afford to think like this. Klaus cannot die now, not when they have both risked so much and come so far. 

Stubbornly concluding that Klaus is indeed alive, Nikolay does not check his pulse, but grabs the man’s coat and begins tugging it from his shoulders. Klaus’ clothes are frozen and wet; unlike Nikolay, he has spent a majority of the time lying on the ground. Nikolay had not wanted to remove and dry them after pulling Klaus from the aqueduct, because then all Klaus would have had to cover himself and keep warm were a pile of leaves and Nikolay’s overcoat. It was not enough then, and it will not be enough now. 

He has an idea. An idea that will keep Klaus warm while his uniform defrosts. A horribly,  _ horribly  _ unpleasant idea, one that will no doubt scar Nikolay forever, but an idea nevertheless. 

Nikolay continues removing Jäger’s clothes. It is not an easy task. He has nearly broken a sweat by the time he finishes taking off Klaus’ uniform, socks and all. The man’s shirt and undergarments are soaked still, too wet and too cold to leave on, so Nikolay struggles with himself for a tense moment before stripping those, as well.

Finally, Klaus is bared, naked and defenseless, in the open air. The sight of his chest rising and falling brings Nikolay some meager comfort—at least it was not all for nothing, after all.

Before removing Klaus’ clothes, Nikolay had first laid him down on a temporary mattress: his overcoat, which he had spread on the ground next to the fire that crackled and spat as it devoured the leaves he fed it with. He now lowers Klaus’ head against the padded material with his best attempt at gentleness and is wiping the smeared blood and dirt from Klaus’ face when something unexpected (and disturbing) happens.

It starts slowly—goose pimples appear on Jäger’s skin, spreading over his arms and chest, and then Jäger begins to shake. Nikolay is floored, uncertain, but quickly rubs his hands up and down Klaus’ body, trying to coax warmth back into him. It does not do much good. 

Klaus’ shaking intensifies, his eyelids fluttering and lips parting as he moans wretchedly; Nikolay can hear his teeth clattering together. It appears as if he is having a seizure of some sort and there is nothing Nikolay can do to stop it.

Fully panicking, Nikolay throws a fistful of twigs in the fire and then turns Klaus on his side to face the heat, lying down with him and aligning himself along the man’s naked back. He holds Klaus’ shivery form wrapped tightly in his arms and tangles their legs together without thinking. This is not a situation in which he can spare much thought. 

Jäger’s condition only deteriorates. His shuddering becomes violent and his breathing erratic. 

Nikolay is trapped in a web of indecision. His own clothing—a faded green shirt, thin and threadbare and still somewhat damp—is a poor guardian against the cold. If he cannot heat Klaus up, Klaus will die. He cannot give Klaus his own clothes, for they offer very little protection, and Klaus’ own clothes still glisten with melting beads of ice. The fire is as big as Nikolay dares to make it, and he has no other means of warming Klaus save for...well, himself.

Body heat is the last viable option at this point. The very idea has been skulking, unwelcome and ignored, in the back of his mind ever since he brought Klaus out from the water and into the woods. He would sooner hug a wild boar than embrace Klaus Jäger, especially a  _ naked  _ Klaus Jäger, but things are looking more and more desperate.

Nikolay feels his cheeks burn at the thought of stripping bare, as he had during his night with Anya, and holding Klaus in such a way.

Time passes. Klaus’ shivers show no signs of lessening and Nikolay eventually feels his reserves crumble beneath the weight of his own guilt. He cannot stand the way that Klaus trembles.

Cursing himself, the weather, Klaus, and Klaus a second time for good measure, Nikolay removes his shirt, then his trousers. He wraps his body around Jäger’s icy-cold, shivering frame, clenching his teeth against the chill as he presses them chest-to-chest and rubs Klaus’ skin wherever he can reach.

Nikolay tells himself that his attempts to warm Jäger by lying down with him, both of them stark-naked, are perfectly rational and not at all embarrassing. He had to make sure Klaus was not still freezing, and this is the best way to go about doing it considering the nature of their predicament. However true this may be, he cannot help but feel a prickle of mortification at his own position.

Wedged so close to him, there is not much else Nikolay can do besides stare at Klaus; at his proud bones and skin like ivory, jagged where the scars cut across his cheeks. Scars that Nikolay put there. A part of him wants to tear them open, to go deeper, to carve his name on Jäger’s very soul as a reminder so he’ll never forget exactly who it was that bested him time and time again. But he has spent the past few days piecing Jäger together again, and it would be a shame to waste all his efforts. The scars will have to suffice for now. 

Nikolay lies there, on a bed of his own clothing with Klaus held against his chest, for what seems like ages. The fire dies down after a while, but it has already done its job. Klaus’ body is warmed and he has buried his head in the crook of Nikolay’s neck, breathing slow and soft. Nikolay wishes to get up, but instead, he wraps his arms tighter around the man’s back, bringing him even closer, and chases away the bitter cold with their shared heat.

When he finally surrenders to the exhaustion that plagues him, Nikolay does not dream of Anya, nor of his loyal comrades: he dreams of tanks, and fire, and burning blue eyes.


	4. Stagnation

 

As they had walked together towards Kraslice, Nikolay could see Klaus slowing down and struggling more with every step. He had watched as Klaus steadily lost consciousness and surrendered to the cold, to the pain of his wounds. It had felt like the slow crawl of an impending defeat and Nikolay had been blinded, had forgotten every legitimate reason he had to leave Jäger dying in a ditch somewhere.

Now, hours later, Nikolay is awake and looking with a detached sort of loathing at the man lying asleep next to him.

He had lost sight of who they were and why they were there in the first place. Had forgotten the bullet to his chest and the deaths of his friends. He had not only spared but  _ salvaged  _ a German—who’d made it very clear that he would kill Nikolay, given the chance. All because of, what, a misguided hero complex? 

Nikolay exhales long and slow.

What worries him most is that they have nobody to turn to. A disgraced Nazi soldier and an escaped Russian prisoner with no money to spare. Their prospects are not ideal, should they seek food or shelter in Kraslice together. Nobody in their right mind would take them in. His own comrades, Stepan and Serafim, if they made it to safety (which he prays they did), would probably brand him as a traitor should he show up with Jäger in tow.

_ Unless… _

Nikolay could always turn him in. A Nazi prisoner-of-war. He considers this, turning it over and over again in his mind. It would be a deserving fate, to be sure. Ironic, even. But, for some unknown reason, it does not sit right with him. Maybe he’s going crazy.

His musings are interrupted by Klaus, who mumbles in his sleep and curls closer with a small frown. They must have slept for quite some time, as the sky above them is stained red as wine and interspersed with faint, twinkling stars. Evening already. Another day gone by, and they are hardly closer to Kraslice than they were when they started. 

Nikolay listens for the revving of engines, the shouting of German soldiers; but he hears only his own breathing and the sounds of the forest around him. They are yet undiscovered. A small blessing, but a welcome one.

Jäger’s leg, the one not completely swaddled in bandages, presses further between his own, drawing Nikolay’s attention back to the fact that they are both as naked as the day they were born. He represses a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. 

Nikolay is not a self-conscious man by nature, but there is something that feels undeniably  _ wrong  _ about allowing himself to be so exposed in front of Klaus Jäger, like walking alone and unarmed into a den of lions. Dangerous. 

Perhaps he is imagining things, but Klaus’ lips seem to curve into a knowing smirk when he then moves closer, invading Nikolay’s space with his heat.

The warmth of their bodies is, admittedly, pleasant. It feels nice, not to be cold. It also feels rather nice to be held by another person. Though Nikolay will never admit that to anyone for as long as he lives, he can at least enjoy it for the time being, no matter the risks involved. He needs body heat anyway, and so does Klaus. This is just survival, what they’re doing. They’re surviving.

Still foggy from sleep (or so he tells himself), Nikolay strokes a finger along the longest of the scars that run down Jäger’s cheek. It is a strange kind of thrill to know that he has left such a permanent mark on the man. Like  _ ownership _ . 

The thought makes him shudder on an inhale, his touch skating across Klaus’ face.

“Magst du sie denn?” Jäger opens his eyes, fixing Nikolay with a sharp look. Nikolay snatches his hand away, as quickly as if he’d been burned, but the damage is already done. 

Klaus smiles at him widely, showing off the small gap between his front teeth. This close, Nikolay can make out the separate striations of color in Klaus’ eyes: they are not completely blue it turns out, but green and grey, too; gleaming bright, like pools of liquid silver, in the dying light of the sun. Jäger must notice Nikolay’s staring because his eyes go hooded and he leans in a tiny bit closer, his voice pitched low. “Sie waren ein Geschenk. Ein Geschenk, von einem sehr guten Freund von mir.”

_ Freund _ . Nikolay knows that word. Something about a friend, one of Klaus’ comrades. The other Nazis, maybe? Nikolay cannot know for sure. Klaus seems to expect a reaction, judging by the way he raises a single taunting brow. 

“... I haven’t seen any other Germans,” Nikolay says. “Nein. Nein Deutsche. Anyway, even if I had, I wouldn’t  _ tell you _ . Idiot.”

Klaus’ expression drops and he rolls his eyes with a huff. Obviously, that was not the answer he’d been hoping for. Or maybe he is making fun of Nikolay’s limited German vocabulary. Either one seems likely. 

Nikolay is about to say more when Klaus looks down and immediately tenses up in shock.

“Ivushkin,” says Klaus, slowly, “wo sind unsere Klamotten?”

Nikolay follows the direction of his gaze and is reminded all at once, with painful clarity, of the awkward  _ nakedness _ their current situation involves. 

He scoots away from Klaus at an unholy speed, covering himself with a hand as he does so. Jäger tries to do the same but it proves too much for his injured body to handle; he instead remains lying there, atop the coat mattress, with his splinted leg sticking out like a sore thumb. All he wears is his own skin and a vicious glare directed at Nikolay.

“You were cold, and the clothes were wet, and I just—”

Nikolay trails off uselessly. He feels the blood rushing hot to his face and, at that moment, wishes for the ground to come and swallow him up, thus removing him from the face of the earth.

Klaus crosses his arms. A display of dominance? No, not quite. A  _ challenge _ . Nikolay, not wanting to appear the coward in this equation, crosses his arms as well, leaving himself completely exposed to the swelter of Jäger’s silent judgment. 

They face off. Nikolay, in all his naked glory, and Klaus, who only looks angrier and angrier with each passing moment. Then, like the slow shattering of glass, Jäger’s face changes, the corners of his mouth creeping into a grin, and it is not long before he starts chuckling. 

This is a fairly inappropriate time for Nikolay to crack a smile, but he cannot help himself.

It is the inherent ridiculousness of their entire situation, more than anything, that pushes them both over the edge. Nikolay dissolves into a fit of laughter, followed suit by Klaus. The woods ring with the sound of their voices. Klaus is guffawing, red-faced, his head thrown back and his smile threatening to split his scars. 

The past few days have gone from highly-improbable to never-in-a-million-years. Nikolay would not have imagined, even a week prior, that Klaus and he would ever laugh together without some form of malice involved, but here they are, the thickest of thieves, cackling with each other at nothing in particular. 

Nikolay is the first to regain some semblance of control, wiping the smile off his face as much as he is able and clearing his throat. 

Jäger gasps for breath, managing to both wheeze and chuckle at the same time. His chest rises and falls in a stuttering rhythm and Nikolay is met back with reality. Jäger is still hurt. Still wounded. Still half-dead. 

Nikolay goes rooting around for the water flask, taking it to Klaus and holding it up to Klaus’ lips without saying a word. 

“Danke,” Klaus grunts once he's swallowed. 

“Do not mention it.” After hastily pulling on his own undergarments—not bothering with the rest of the clothes—Nikolay busies himself with investigating Klaus’ bandages, checking to see whether or not they are in need of changing. Klaus groans when he unwraps them and lets his head fall back on Nikolay’s coat, staring up at the sky with grit teeth.

“Es ist immer noch kaputt. Offensichtlich.”

“Your leg is burned, but not infected, I think,” replies Nikolay. He finishes removing the dirty bandages and sets them aside. “This is good.”

Klaus snarls when Nikolay pulls a bit tighter than he should while rebandaging. “Je eher sie heilt, desto eher kann ich treten dich damit.”

“Stop whining,” Nikolay says, enjoying the expression of indignation on Jäger’s face. “Be glad that I am here, taking care of you, instead of leaving you to rot as you would no doubt do to me. You are lucky that Russians have honor, and respect for their enemies too, else I would have shot you and been done with it on the bridge.”

Klaus mumbles a reply under his breath but goes quiet after that. Nikolay finishes tending to the broken leg in silence. Once the splint has been secured in place, he sits back and blows out a long breath. 

His own injuries cry for attention, but he has nothing with which to treat himself. No food, hardly any water left, and the bandages he must save for Klaus. Scratching absently at his chest, Nikolay wonders where Anya is at this moment. If she is enjoying a meal, or maybe getting ready for bed as the night creeps ever closer. He wonders if she is thinking of him, too.

“Worüber denkst du nach, Ivushkin?” Jäger asks in a softer voice than usual.

“Hm?” Nikolay turns to Klaus, forgetting momentarily that they cannot speak the same language. “What?”

Klaus stares at him, his expression calculating. Then, with intention clear in his movements, he lifts an arm and taps his temple once, twice, and points at Nikolay, raising his eyebrows.  _ What are you thinking about? _ It is, perhaps, the most coherent way Klaus has ever communicated with him. 

At a loss for words, Nikolay simply shrugs and points up at the blackening sky, as if the stars will explain everything.

“Die Sterne,” Klaus says, an unspoken question in the tone of his voice. 

“Ja, die Sterne,” replies Nikolay.

Klaus snorts and shakes his head, an odd look on his face. “Sie sind ein seltsamer Mann, Ivushkin. Ich weiß nicht, wie Sie je hast mich besiegt. Ich glaube, es muss Schicksal gewesen sein.”

He leans in close, without any warning. They are less than a hair’s breadth away from each other, and the intensity of Jäger’s gaze makes Nikolay’s pulse quicken. If Jäger attacks him, now, with Nikolay half-starved and weak, there is no telling what might happen. Nikolay holds eye contact with him, a hand inching surreptitiously toward the boot where he’s hidden his knife. He’ll go for the leg first. A warning. Then, if Jäger still doesn’t back off, he’ll give him a real taste of Russian steel. Nothing deadly; just a poke or two, enough to get a clear message across.

With all the tension running between them, it comes as a complete surprise when, instead of lashing out, Klaus grabs at Nikolay’s elbow and tugs him down onto the lumpy overcoat next to him. “Komm näher, ich friere. Du musst mich wärmen, wie letztes Mal.”

“Jäger,” Nikolay says, blindsided. He had expected an assault of a different kind. Not... _ this _ . Whatever this is. Klaus snickers at him and responds by taking one of Nikolay’s hands, interlacing their fingers and giving him a meaningful look. Still suspicious, Nikolay does not bother playing along with whatever strange ploy the German has cooked up this time. He instead fixes Klaus with a glare and tries to take his hand back. But Klaus doesn’t let him.

Jäger makes a frustrated noise. He wiggles his fingers in Nikolay’s own, kneading demonstratively. Something about it is familiar.

“Erinnerst du dich?”

“You...want me to rub your fingers?” Nikolay asks with guarded curiosity. Jäger does not appear to understand him so, with a great deal of reluctance, Nikolay takes Jäger’s hand in his own and starts to knead, looking at him for confirmation. Klaus’ fingers are cold, though not enough to cause concern, and Nikolay suspects that the delighted expression on Klaus’ face is more from successfully ordering him around than it is from the resulting warmth.

“Ja gut! Guter Junge, Nikolay.”

Nikolay scoffs, insulted.  _ Good boy? Who does he think he is? _ “Do not take me for a fool. I speak a bit of German, after all. Dummkopf. Leck mich doch, Klaus Jäger. See?” 

Klaus did not expect such a response, clearly, and is startled into a bright peal of laughter. 

It is not long before they lapse into silence, which suits Nikolay just fine as he focuses on rubbing warmth back into the tips of Klaus’ fingers, one by one. Not a preferred activity of his, but it’s not like Nikolay has anything better to do. It is getting dark, too dark to venture out into the woods on his own. Might as well keep his enemy under close scrutiny. Who knows what kind of devious things an unsupervised Klaus Jäger might get up to? Probably not much, actually, what with the broken leg and isolation of their surroundings. But still. Better safe than sorry.

Concentrating on the task at hand, Nikolay does not notice at first the fingers that are inching their way into his hair. He freezes in place when nails drag lightly across the nape of his neck, a twinge of something he cannot pinpoint sparking to life low in his gut. 

The fingers halt as well, but not for long. They are hesitant when they move, virginal even, but Nikolay knows better. He knows Klaus. This has to be a part of some greater design. Klaus must be planning every movement, right down to the smallest twitch, so as to avoid disrupting the momentary spell that they both seem to have fallen under. 

Jäger’s free hand continues to climb and, inexplicably, foolishly, Nikolay allows it. Maybe because he has not been touched with such care, not before Anya, and the lack has damaged something inside of him. Or maybe he really  _ is  _ going crazy, and Klaus is a mere symptom of his delusions. Nikolay stamps that thought out before it can take root. He has so little left, and to lose his sanity would be to lose himself entirely. Instead, and with some effort, Nikolay clears his thoughts, concentrating only on the slow tease of fingers through his hair. It is surprisingly effective.

“Of all the people in all the world,” Nikolay remarks, risking a slight tilt of his head into Klaus’ hand simply because he can, “It figures that I would be stuck here with you, Jäger. Couldn't just die and be done with it, could you? No. Had to haunt me, even after I beat you at your own game, like some kind of pathetic shadow. I wonder what your German comrades would think, to see you now.”

Klaus tugs sharply on a lock of hair, causing the heat in Nikolay’s stomach to blossom and spread. “Wie leicht es wäre, dein Genick zu brechen.”

Nikolay hums a bland response.

Beyond the reaches of the overhang, the wind whistles through the trees, carrying with it a wintry chill that smells faintly of ozone. Nikolay’s heart thumps in his chest, beat after beat; unanswered questions swarm inside his head and press up against the walls of his skull, each one more compelling than the last. He mostly worries for his comrades, though he also cannot shake the underlying fear that tomorrow brings. Will they both make it to Kraslice? Will the Nazis be there? What will Jäger tell them, when he does? And, most terrifying of all: what if Jäger refuses to let Nikolay go?

“Sie haben mich verlassen,” Klaus finally breaks the silence, his voice strangely hollow. “Das Reich. Meine Männer. Du warst mein Mission, und ich konnte nicht.”

He shuffles closer, and Nikolay can feel his breath, humid, on his skin. The fingers he was kneading turn outward and trap him in a cage of his own making, proceeding to squeeze Nikolay’s hands with a familiar ferocity. The same ferocity that had hunted him across Germany and put three devastating shots in his tank. Jäger’s hand crushes the life from Nikolay’s fingers and, in the redness of the evening light, his grin is a bloody one.

Nikolay’s own breath stutters to a halt.

Klaus whispers soft in his ear, voice dripping with malice. “Aber nun habe ich Euch, Nikolay.”

With a start, Nikolay pulls from Klaus’ grip. His hands clench and unclench, nervously, uncertain in their newfound freedom. The atmosphere has just shifted dramatically and he does not know the cause.

Disoriented, Nikolay fails to prevent it when Klaus pushes his sleep-warmed face against his neck, and when Klaus next speaks his mouth makes wet shapes along Nikolay’s collar that burn with a terrible, dangerous heat. “Sie haben mich geschlagen, Nikolay Ivushkin, aber ich werde mich rächen. Ich verspreche dir.”

Jäger’s hand is against his hip now, fingers flexing, dragging across bare skin. Nikolay chokes on an inhale, his heart hammering in his chest, and the only thing that saves him at that moment is the unexpected growling of his stomach. 

“I’m hungry,” Nikolay says aloud as if he’s only just noticed. He pulls himself away from Klaus, staggering to his feet and moving to retrieve the rest of their dry clothes. The entire time he feels Klaus’ eyes following him, scorching a hole in his back. 

Nikolay pulls his shirt on over his head and instantly feels much safer. Each layer of clothing is another piece of armor to protect him from Klaus’ gaze (which never strays from him the entire time he dresses, much to Nikolay’s discomfort).

“Here's the plan,” Nikolay says out loud to Jäger, whom he knows speaks not a lick of Russian. “I am going to Kraslice. And I am going to take you with me. It isn't far, not even a half day's walk, but your leg will slow us down, so I imagine we will arrive tomorrow by nightfall. When we get there, you and I will part ways, permanently. Understand? No more pursuits, no more fighting, and no more tanks. I spared you, twice. You owe me.”

He wheels to face Jäger. “Got it? Once we reach Kraslice, I’ll—”

The rest of Nikolay’s sentence is cut short. He swallows, frozen in place and filled with apprehension. The intensity with which Klaus is looking at him sends shivers crawling down his spine. It is black, and predatory. Nikolay imagines a cat, toying with its prey in small swipes with sheathed claws before the inevitable pounce. Jäger looks, for lack of a better word,  _ hungry _ , but not for food. Something brews there, in the depths of his eyes, something scheming and endless, something that sears Nikolay to the bone.

“Kraslice,” says Klaus; a promise.

“Yes,” Nikolay replies. His voice betrays him. Klaus grins at the wavering tone and points toward his own clothes, suddenly seeming quite cheerful for a man stranded with his worst enemy.

“Die nehme ich.”

Nikolay picks up the clothes, wrinkling his nose as he does so. They smell a little of smoke but they are dry enough to wear, so he tosses them to Klaus before turning his back on the man and scraping dirt over the charred remains of their firepit. It is as good an excuse as any to avoid meeting Klaus’ gaze.

By the time he is feeling collected enough to turn back around, Jäger has already dressed in his shirt and undergarments—though not his trousers—and is flat on his back with his hands steepled over his chest. Nikolay dawdles as much as he can; but, after running out of things to pretend to be doing, he eventually gives in. The night is cold enough, and will only become colder with time. Besides, Klaus is lying on his only coat.

Nikolay settles underneath the overhang and as far from Klaus as he possibly can (which, unfortunately, isn’t very far at all, considering the size of the overcoat). It is dark, but he can still make out hints of Klaus’ profile from the moonlight that drips down through the tangle of roots above them. 

The stress and anger of the past two days—hell, of the past few  _ years _ —hit him in full force out of nowhere, and he fails to contain the reaction that bubbles up within himself. “I cannot wait to be rid of you,” Nikolay says, less self-righteously than he’d planned to, still rattled from the lingering sensation of a mouth pressed against his skin. 

Klaus turns his head to face him, silent. It feels like hours that they lie there, side by side, without speaking, Klaus watching him with starlight reflected in the hidden depths of his eyes. Nikolay tries to ignore how it makes him squirm inside. 

It doesn’t really work.

“Stop staring, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps after the squirming becomes too much. 

The words hardly escape from his lips before Jäger is moving closer, is seizing Nikolay by the hip, again, and muttering hot in his ear.

“Ich habe nachgedacht, Nikolay. Lassen Wir können ein neues Spiel zu spielen.”

“Let go of me,” barks Nikolay without thinking, grabbing Jäger’s hand and wrenching it upward as he pushes Jäger back against the floor. Jäger hisses lowly but does not retaliate. “I’m sick of you, Jäger. I’m sick of your poisoned tongue and your accursed eyes. You don’t seem to realize who is the one in control here. I  _ saved  _ you, goddamnit, and you are making me start to regret it. Why can’t you just act grateful, you bastard? Why must you test me in this way?”

Klaus looks up at him from beneath, smirking.

“Du kannst nicht mich töten. Sind wir gebunden, du und ich…”

Using his free hand, Jäger reaches up, spreading his fingers against Nikolay's chest, then moves his hand down to his own chest and does the same. He’s trying to convey something, clearly, but  _ what _ ? Nikolay has just about lost his patience for Jäger’s mind games and is about to release him when Jäger arches upward, bringing them a breath apart and speaking with a quick, feverish sort of passion. 

“Ich habe alles verloren—Kameraden, Panzer, Rang und Respekt. Aber nicht du. Du bist mein konstant.” Nikolay cannot move, cannot speak. He is immobilized, either by fear or by shock, and Jäger senses it, too, judging by the way his grin sharpens until it is nothing but teeth. 

“Aufpassen, Ivushkin. Sie möglicherweise hat die erste Runde gewonnen. Aber jetzt ich bin an der Reihe.”

Jäger moves closer, impossibly closer. “Und diesmal, ich werde gewinnen.”

Then, as if on impulse, Jäger closes the gap between them and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Nikolay’s mouth. It takes Nikolay by surprise, and he barely has time to register Jäger’s half-closed eyes and the warmth of Jäger’s breath on his lips before it’s over. 

Klaus pulls back without a word, his expression unreadable in the dim lighting as he puts distance between them once again. Then, as if the last couple minutes never happened, he turns his back on Nikolay and says, briefly: “Gute Nacht.”

Nikolay is left feeling utterly unbalanced. 

He rubs his mouth with the back of his wrist, staring at Klaus’ silhouette and wondering which of them is the crazier one: Klaus, for kissing Nikolay, or Nikolay, for not putting up more of a fight. It’s a tie, he decides. After all, Jäger has always been a bit of a psychopath, but he’s never done anything like this before. And Nikolay had been too stunned to respond. He’s  _ still  _ too stunned to respond.

The kiss had not been a proper kiss. Not like the ones Nikolay had shared with Anya. This one was different, more deliberate. In a way, it had almost felt like a test or experiment of some kind. A frown creases Nikolay’s forehead. He cannot fathom what the purpose of such a test would be until the answer comes to him in a revelation.

Of course. Of fucking course. More mind games.

Jäger is weak and vulnerable and wants to level the playing field by messing with Nikolay’s remaining sanity. It doesn’t mean anything, Nikolay tells himself firmly. Just one of Jäger’s stupid tactics. After tomorrow, he will be reunited with his friends in Kraslice, and Klaus Jäger will be nothing more than a name.


	5. Provocation

 

Nikolay means to awaken early in the morning, but when he opens his eyes it is dark still, far too dark, and the sun is nowhere in sight. From where he’s lying he has a partial view of the surrounding forest and the murky blackness of a predawn sky. 

Jäger is tucked up against his side with an arm slung over Nikolay’s waist, fast asleep. He does not stir when Nikolay rolls away from him, which Nikolay is grateful for. After the intimate circumstances of yesterday, he needs a moment to himself. A nice, quiet moment, one where he can gather his thoughts and formulate a plan without any unwanted distractions.

Briefly, he considers rousing Jäger. Leaving early. Kraslice is not far, not far at all, and if they go now they will have a high chance of passing unseen through the woods. But it is  _ too  _ dark. Nikolay can manage well enough on his own; but he isn’t on his own. Klaus is with him. If Klaus happens to lose his footing, if he gets hurt or re-injures himself, then they will be right back where they started and Nikolay will have to carry him. Nikolay is weak now, even more than he had been just a few days ago, and he knows that he cannot support Klaus’ weight. He can barely support his own.

Nikolay fights back a wave of nausea at the thought of walking any further on an empty stomach. They need food. It has been too long since Nikolay had last eaten, and he assumes the same is true for Klaus. Kraslice may be just around the corner, but if they do not have the physical strength to round that corner then they will never reach it. 

A draft of air wafts under the overhang and between Klaus and Nikolay, bringing with it the chill from earlier, damp and threatening. It smells like rain. 

He squints up through the tangle of roots. It  _ looks _ like rain, too. The sky is not just dark, it turns out, but bloated with clouds; a slew of heavy grey tones that steadily, stubbornly shove back and forth, vying for dominance. 

Nikolay bites his lip, troubled. Rain, now? With Jäger already struggling to walk, and Nikolay on his last legs? It would be a death sentence. The road is nowhere near their little overhang; a strategic move on his part, though now it has backfired tremendously. Without the road, Nikolay has been relying on the sun to find his bearings. Without the sun, he is lost. They are both lost. Not only that, but the water would ruin all their dry clothes, and Nikolay does not know if he can survive spending another night trapped against Klaus Jäger’s naked form.

A low, unmistakable rumbling interrupts his train of thought. The clouds shift and pull apart, slow but menacing as they darken overhead. 

_ No. No no no. No! _

Nikolay clambers to his feet, dashing out into the open and leaving Klaus on the overcoat mattress, still fast asleep. They’re so  _ close _ , damnit. Why now? Why does it have to rain today, of all days? Nikolay pulls his ushanka tightly over his head and sets off, his mind a cluttered mess.

They need food. That is the first priority, should the weather take a turn for the worse. The forests of Czech Slovakia are populated by animals and plants of all sorts. He’s no hunter, but surely he will be able to find some non-toxic mushrooms, or maybe a berry bush at the very least. Anything will do as long as it is edible. Nikolay has no idea how long the rain will last, if it does rain, but he trusts that Klaus and he will be fine without sustenance for a couple days more. The rain will probably not continue for that long. Probably. 

Nikolay pauses, horrified. But what if it  _ does  _ continue for longer than a couple of days? He isn’t sure that he is prepared for that outcome. Best to focus on more pressing matters, like finding food in a forest in the dark. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

It feels like hours that he spends scouring the woods, searching with increasing desperation for something,  _ anything _ , that might be eaten. The sounds of crunching leaves and his own labored breathing are all that he hears, and shadows all that he sees. It is deathly quiet otherwise. If he didn’t know better, Nikolay might believe himself to be the only living creature on earth.

He tries his best to shake the uneasiness that trails after him, but fails; it stalks him on two spindly legs through the trees, slavering and drooling like a wild animal, with eyes that roll in their sockets and a gaping, tooth-filled mouth. It whispers to him, filling his head with images.

Nikolay begins to walk faster and faster but he cannot escape his own imagination. The images presented to him take root, growing like weeds in the garden of his mind. 

_ Himself, huddling underneath the overhang, Klaus shivering next to him as they both waste away little by little. Their corpses, rotted and shriveled like old fruit, found by some wandering traveler who strayed too far from the road. Anya, Stepan, Serafim, all of them sitting around a table, raising their mugs of beer in unison to toast their fallen comrades, wondering with heavy hearts and grim expressions what must have become of their friend Nikolay after he disappeared into the woods and never returned.  _

Not watching where he is going, Nikolay trips over a gnarled root that sticks out of the earth and has to catch himself against a nearby tree. The bark stings his palms but he doesn’t notice, even when his hands come away bloody. His chest is tight with something—a feeling that is stronger than panic, more consuming than fear—and he draws a ragged breath as if it will help to dispel the tightness. It does not help. In fact, it only makes it worse.

The woods that circle him are shrouded with a dense fog which carpets the forest floor. Smoky grey tendrils wind up the trunks of trees like serpents, with eyeless heads that sway back and forth. Everything looks the same. Each shrub, identical. He turns back the way he came from, peering through the mist, but try as he might Nikolay cannot identify the path he had taken to get here. He cannot even see his own footprints. 

Something is standing behind him, breathing clammy and cold on the back of his neck.

Nikolay spins back around to more of the same. Trees and shrubs and mist and fog; an endless, inescapable labyrinth. Even the stars above him are obscured by the clouds. He is alone in the dark.

He knows the feeling now, recognizes it. It is despair.

Nikolay swallows. Going off to search for food at night on his own had been careless. But maybe, just maybe, he is closer to the overhang than he realizes. Maybe, if he tries speaking loudly enough, he will get a response, something that can point him in the right direction and guide him back to safety. It’s worth a shot.

“Klaus,” calls Nikolay, his voice a touch shakier than he would have liked. “Klaus, can you hear me? Hello? Jäger? It’s me—it’s Ivushin. I…”

He pauses. Clenches his hands into fists.

“... I need your help. Please.”

Nothing. No response. The forest stares back at him with dead eyes. 

“Klaus?” Nikolay calls again, louder. He is starting to feel lightheaded. The trees blur together, merging with the gloom of the sky until the world around him becomes a colorless void.

Still nothing. Awake or asleep, Klaus is not answering him.

Gritting his teeth, Nikolay scrapes together all that remains of his determination and continues onward. He is a soldier. Pain and fear mean nothing to him. Every step is another shock of dizziness but he powers through it with great effort, panting as his chest further constricts. His vision blackens at the corners, grows fuzzy, and he chastises himself. This is no time for weakness. Food has become an afterthought. He needs to get back to the overhang before he passes out.

Then, in the distance, a flash of light. 

_ Kraslice _ ? 

Nikolay staggers swiftly forward, a man possessed. It's Kraslice, it has to be. Or, maybe, a search party. His friends. They're looking for him. 

_ They’re looking for me! _

He stumbles forward, waving his arms over his head with as much energy as he can muster and making a strangled yell to get their attention. 

The light flashes again, shining bright through the trees and momentarily illuminating the forest, turning the trees back into trees and parting the endless sea of fog. It blinds him, forces him to cringe away, but he does not care. 

Nikolay laughs out loud, his troubles suddenly reduced to dust and scattered on the wind. His friends are close, and soon he will be reunited with Anya and Stepan and Serafim, and it will be like he never left in the first place. He yells again, louder this time, and the light slices towards him. Then, loud and angry follows a skyward roar. Thunder. The light flashes once more, and Nikolay sees it for what it really is. Lightning. 

The smile slips from his face. His friends aren't looking for him. Nobody is. 

More thunder rolls out of the sky and Nikolay can almost smell the storm, can taste the electric pressure in the air around him. His retinas still carry an afterimage so he scrubs at them with his fists, mildly surprised when blood smears sticky and wet across his skin. He had not realized that he was bleeding.

It does not worry him. In fact, he hardly feels anything at all. His mind is numb and empty. All the things he was worrying about—food, his friends, the rain, Jäger—it all seems very distant.  _ Let the storm come _ , thinks Nikolay.  _ It doesn’t matter anymore. _

The woods seem darker now than they had been before. Colder, too. Nikolay picks a direction at random and starts to move through the trees with less urgency this time. 

He has gotten himself lost, and now his chances of survival are next to nothing. Either he somehow beats the odds and reaches Kraslice alive (which is highly unlikely considering the way his senses are starting to fade one by one), he happens on the road (and gets subsequently caught and killed by Nazi patrols), or he collapses in the forest and dies a slow and meaningless death. 

_ All this over some food _ , muses Nikolay to himself with a touch of morbid amusement. _ I always imagined dying for a nobler cause _ . 

Something brings him to a halt. His shirt, torn and filthy, has snagged on a thorny bush of some kind. Nikolay tugs at it half-heartedly, still deep in thought. 

_ But food is not the only reason I am out here, is it? _ Nikolay thinks.  _ This is  _ my  _ fault.  _ My  _ decision. If I could have just let Jäger go. If I had been just a little bit more selfish, a little bit less concerned with the fate of a German. A German who, by all rights, deserved to die. If I had just let him fall… _

The bush is unrelenting. He pulls harder, beginning to frown. 

_ I didn’t  _ have  _ to save him. I didn’t  _ have  _ to stay with him, in this accursed forest, and put up with all the staring and the mockery and the touches. I didn’t  _ have  _ to keep him warm. I didn’t  _ have  _ to look for food. But I did. _

Thorns dig into his flesh as he plunges his hand into the stubborn bush and tries to wrestle himself free in earnest. Overhead the thunder growls. It’s closer than ever. Nikolay growls right back at it, ignoring the thought of how foolish he must look: a soldier of the Red Army, fighting against a thornbush and  _ losing _ . Klaus is not the only one who has fallen from grace, it appears.

Overwhelmed with frustration, he gives his shirt a good hard yank. The fabric, already thin and threadbare, rips free, sending Nikolay reeling backward and tumbling onto the ground with a solid thud. 

Nikolay lies there, facing the grey clouds above him, and feels the first fat droplet of rain land on his face. The anger and humiliation that has been building up inside him for so long finally spills over. Bitter tears escape him. They mingle with the rain as they slide down his cheeks and onto the forest floor. He rubs them away, cursing his own weakness. If Jäger were to see him like this, Nikolay would never hear the end of it.

“ _ Nikolay _ ! Wo bist du? Lassen Sie mich nicht allein!”

_ Speak of the devil _ , Nikolay thinks to himself. 

He does not bother to get up. After all, his senses are not exactly reliable. He is so hungry and tired, so cold and weak, that hallucinations do not seem too far-fetched. Anyway, Klaus has a broken leg, and the last time Nikolay saw him he was fast asleep. Surely there is no way that he has left the overhang, let alone tracked Nikolay through the forest, in his wounded condition.

It then comes as a complete surprise when he hears the telltale shuffling of underbrush and hobbled footsteps draw closer, and more so when he sees the man himself emerge from the trees like some sort of pathetic apparition. 

Jäger is leaning stiffly on a large branch as a crutch, sweaty strands of hair stuck to his forehead and his face red with exertion. When he catches sight of Nikolay lying on the ground his eyes go impossibly, shockingly wide and he lurches forward; the movement is too much for his leg to handle, clearly, and he ends up toppling to the ground. It would be funny,  _ should be _ funny, but Nikolay cannot bring himself to laugh, even if it is at Klaus’ expense. Instead, he watches with disinterest as the man pulls the branch closer, huffing and puffing dramatically, before using it to prop himself up once again.

His damaged leg drags behind him as he limps to Nikolay’s side. He stands over Nikolay, blocking his view, and squints down at him with a panicked expression. “Scheiße, wo warst du denn? Bist du verletzt?”

Nikolay turns his head to the side, ignoring him. 

Klaus freezes momentarily, his expression locked in place. Then he snarls and says, sharply, “Antworte mir!”

Nikolay closes his eyes.

The rain continues to fall on both of them, soaking through their clothes and turning the ground beneath them to mud. Though his eyes remain closed, Nikolay can feel the glare Klaus is directing at him, can feel the heat of it on his skin. 

“... Das bist nicht du,” says Klaus after a long silence. “Wo ist der  Mann , der meinen Lager siebenmal entkommen hat? Hm? Wo ist mein Ivushkin? Ich sehe ihn nicht.” He speaks with a strange fervency, as if his words have more meaning for him than Nikolay knows.

A deafening crescendo of thunder passes overhead, bringing with it a new downpour. Opening his eyes at last, Nikolay is met with the sight of Klaus Jäger, drenched and bedraggled but still standing in spite of it all, with a hand outstretched. Waiting. Just like back on the bridge.

“Nikolay,” continues Klaus, “sie sind nicht berechtigt, aufzugeben. Ich lasse dich nicht. Kommt, markiere nicht den Feigling. Steh auf. Steh auf und kämpf.”

Dazed, feeling just a little bit out of touch with reality, Nikolay reaches up and lets Klaus grab his hand, allows himself to be helped to his feet. Jäger catches his eye as they steady themselves. 

Something about the way Klaus looks at him brings Nikolay back to the memory of another time, of blood and death and a gunshot and pain; so much pain. His hand trembles where it is still held and he pulls away, recoiling from Klaus’ grip. Suddenly, the old wound on his chest flares back to life, feeling as fresh as the day the bullet tore through his skin, and with it comes an anger that had lain dormant until now, anger that rises in his throat and claws at him from the inside, demanding to be unleashed.

When he speaks, his voice echoes off the trees and sounds far away, like it is coming from someone else’s mouth and not his own. “Fuck. You.”

Klaus stares, uncomprehending, so Nikolay makes his meaning clear by pushing the man back with a savage strength. There is an odd buzzing noise in his ears, and something about the surprised hurt that flickers across Jäger’s face fills him with dark satisfaction.

“You did this to me. I could have gone home, could have been with my family, could have been safe. But no. You had to ruin it for me. Didn’t you?” Nikolay advances on Klaus with his teeth bared.

“You shot me. You put a bullet right through my chest. Kept me like a pet, then used me and my friends as target practice. Almost  _ killed  _ me, time after time. And I fucking hate you for it. You just couldn’t let me have one thing, could you? Not one thing. No, you had to chase me down, kill my men, all for what? Your own twisted pleasure? And even now, after I saved your fucking life, you continue to mess with me, like you think this is some kind of silly game. Today was supposed to be the end of it. I was supposed to see my comrades again, in Kraslice, but now the rain has ruined that for me as well, and I instead have to spend another wretched night in this godforsaken forest underneath that stupid tree with  _ you _ !”

He shoves him again, harder. Jäger stumbles backward, growling low and dangerous. His eyes glint like gunmetal in the dim light. Nikolay is half-aware of an intensity building in the air around them—it is charged, like the stifling heaviness before a thunderstorm. The rain has drenched him, dripping from his nose as he advances on Klaus.

“I just wanted my freedom. And you took it from me, again!”

There is an animal behind Jäger’s eyes as Nikolay closes the remaining distance between them. He sees it when he raises a fist, ready to slam it into Jäger’s face. Quicker than he has any right to be in his condition, Jäger darts out of the way, using his branch to whack Nikolay in the back of the knee as he does and sending him sprawling facedown in the mud.

Nikolay pushes himself up, panting heavily, his pupils dilated with rage.

He lets loose with a roar and charges at Klaus, knocking the man flat on his back and landing atop his chest. Jäger wheezes violently as his breath is crushed from his body. Nikolay does not have the stamina needed to finish the fight he’s started, but he still grabs Klaus by the neck and squeezes, as though he intends to strangle him.

“I hate you!” Nikolay bellows, and gives Klaus a shake, causing him to turn a virulent shade of purple. Jäger, finally, fights back. He lashes out with his nails, raking a set of stinging lines across Nikolay’s cheek. It is enough for Nikolay’s grip to slacken and for Klaus to pull back before headbutting him. Nikolay is stunned, but not enough for Jäger to fully gain the upper hand.

He feels something spike through him—a familiar sort of thrill, but new all the same.

They grapple in the mud, wrestling each other for control. The rain continues to fall, cold compared to the heat of Jäger against him, their bodies pressing together again and again as they roll around in the wet dirt, becoming absolutely filthy with it; a messy coating of earthen warpaint. The booming of thunder offsets their gasps and grunts as they struggle against one another, the rainwater slicking their skin, Klaus’ elbow haphazardly bashing into his sternum and Nikolay’s knuckles glancing over Klaus’ cheekbone. At some point, Nikolay’s ushanka is knocked off his head, but he hardly notices. 

Jäger is at an extreme disadvantage because of his leg and it is not long before Nikolay is astride him once more, hands around his neck and eyes wild.

“Why can’t I just leave you,” he says, his voice breaking midway. “I want to, so fucking badly. So why can’t I? Huh? Why can’t I?”

Jäger says nothing. Rather, he sneers up at Nikolay and spits right in his face.

“You slimy, fascist piece of shit,” says Nikolay, not bothering to wipe his face as he gives Jäger another good shake. The German clearly does not like it. He still refuses to speak, however, and instead begins to thrash below Nikolay like a hooked fish on the line. Nikolay shakes him again. 

“Stop it. I said stop. Stop! Klaus!”

The man stills beneath him at the sound of his name. “Ja?” he asks, giving Nikolay a demonic, gap-toothed grin. It would probably have been more effective if he wasn’t shivering so much from the cold. 

For whatever reason, Nikolay is oddly struck by the sight of him like this: streaked with mud, his hair in chaos and his eyes burning like blue fire, the scars standing stark against the flush of his cheeks. He looks alive, more so than he has looked ever since their confrontation on the aqueduct bridge. It makes Nikolay uncomfortable, seeing him like this and so closely. 

It also makes him uncomfortable to realize that this is the most alive  _ he’s  _ felt since then, too; his hands tight on Klaus’ throat, their legs tangled together. He would move away except that he’s having a difficult time getting his fingers to unclench from around Klaus’ neck and the mad galloping of his pulse. 

Entwined like this, Nikolay can feel the tension in the line of Jäger’s body, in his chest and his thighs, and hear the rough pull of his breath as he says, conspiratorially, “Was wirst du mit mir anstellen, Nikolay?”

Something clicks in Nikolay’s brain.

“This is your fault.” The rain continues to fall, streaming down his face as he talks. “Maybe not all of it. But this, right here, right now. You planned this, didn’t you? You wanted me to do this—to, to  _ fight  _ you, like this. I don’t… why? What fucking good has this done either of us?” Another ripple of thunder, and the rain increases, coming down like bullets from the sky. He can feel it sticking to his shirt, see it against Jäger’s smug, smiling face. “Ever since we met, you’ve chased me, and I want to know why. What gives you the right to stalk me, to  _ torment  _ me, to make my life and the lives of those around me a living hell? Why me, huh, Jäger?  _ Why me _ ?” 

He is practically shouting now, but cannot seem to make himself stop. “Tell me, Klaus, you bastard! I need to know! Why can’t I just let you die like I should, after all that you’ve done to me? Why can’t I leave you and your stupid face, and your stupid scar, and your stupid fucking eyes, why couldn’t I just let you drown and be done with it? You have taken it from me, my freedom, my friends, everything, it is all because of you, you damn, horrid,  _ absolute _ —”

Klaus kisses him.

Nikolay gasps from the shock of it, a violent collision of teeth and wet heat that renders him mute. Surprise, and then panic, wash over him in quick succession, and he wants to push the man away, to try and understand what the fuck Jäger thinks he’s playing at, but then Klaus’ open mouth slides against his, hungry and primal, tasting of rainwater, and Nikolay’s mind goes completely blank. 

And then, without quite meaning to, Nikolay kisses him back.

He nips Klaus’ lower lip, hard, before forcing his way in with his tongue; a battle in this, too, like it always has been between them, even at the very start of it all. Klaus groans and tightens his grip on Nikolay’s face, fingers smearing slick across mud-covered skin as the rain continues to pour down from the sky. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Nikolay is aware of a watery chill seeping deep into his bones, but he cannot find it in himself to care, not now, with Klaus’ body so hot and pliant beneath him.

Klaus yanks him closer, his hands sliding their way into Nikolay’s hair, and,  _ fuck _ , it’s too much, far too much, but Nikolay cannot bring himself to stop.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight against the rain, tight enough to hurt, and pushes his hand up underneath the clinging damp of Jäger’s shirt, deliberately scraping his nails over skin. Klaus responds by catching Nikolay’s tongue in his teeth and biting down. Nikolay grunts. A coppery tang floods his mouth, mingling with the rainwater in a way that is not entirely unpleasant.

The way Klaus licks over his bitten tongue is soothing, like an apology, but with an underlying edge of something else. Something needy, and possessive; something that begs to be claimed and to claim in return. And oh, but Nikolay  _ wants _ .

That thought, more than anything, is what finally jolts him back to his senses.

“Shit,” Nikolay says in a strained, hoarse voice, breaking the kiss. Klaus snaps up with his mouth, trying for a bite at Nikolay’s lips, but Nikolay removes himself just in time. He sits up, still astride Jäger, staring down at the man as he catches his breath. 

_ What the fuck. Did I just…? _

Jäger’s cheeks are flushed redder than Nikolay’s ever seen them; his lips are bruised, swollen, and mud covers him from head to toe. His hair is a disorganized mess. Unlike the bland greyness that clogs the rest of their surroundings, Klaus’ eyes are vivid, strikingly so, and they stare back at Nikolay with a fanatical hunger reflected in their depths.

A sudden flash of lightning cracks the sky wide open, the harsh white light stripping away their defenses, revealing them as they are without all the pretense and the posturing: two people caught up in the same war, two people with a past so hopelessly knotted together that it has become impossible to disentangle by any other means than severance.

“Da bist du,” Klaus says, softly. Reverently.

An idea comes to Nikolay as he sits there, in the rain, studying the expression on Klaus’ face. A theory. One that needs testing. 

They are both irreversibly soaked at this point, drenched and shivering and filthy from rolling around in the rain. It makes no difference when Nikolay leans down over Klaus and presses their chests together, slow and deliberate, mud smearing between them as Nikolay brings them close once again and watches Klaus’ face, waiting for his reaction. 

Klaus does not disappoint. 

Nikolay catches the narrow intake of breath and the way Klaus’ eyes flicker down to his mouth. He notices, too, the subtle upward tilt of Klaus’ chin. They are familiar mannerisms.

Jäger and Anya act the same, it seems, when they wish to be kissed.

“I’ve got you, you bastard,” Nikolay whispers, a cruel sense of glee filling him. Klaus is not the only one who can play mind games, and Nikolay has just uncovered a hell of a weakness; one that can be exploited if need be.  _ It seems that Jäger is not such an emotionless soldier, after all _ , thinks Nikolay to himself.  _ At least, not when it comes to me. _

In one fluid motion, Nikolay reaches above Klaus’ shoulder and grabs the branch he’d been using as a crutch, shoving it into Klaus’ hands before springing quick to his feet and leaving the man lying in the mud with a betrayed, then furious, expression. The sight of it is enough to bring a smile to Nikolay’s face. 

The ground is extremely slippery as he slogs away to retrieve his soiled ushanka and wring the rainwater from it, sporting a distasteful grimace as he does so. He can still taste Klaus on his tongue.

They don’t talk about it, as Klaus leads Nikolay back to the overhang. Not that they could talk about it even if they wanted to, what with the language barrier. However, Klaus does not even send any heated looks or curling smirks his way, which Nikolay is grateful for. His mind is moving so fast that his thoughts blur together like bullets, impacting and ricocheting inside the walls of his skull. He is quietly reeling with the information he’d gained from their encounter, recounting the series of events that led up to their fruition with careful disbelief. 

_ Klaus  _ wanted  _ to kiss me. _

Though Klaus does not speak, Nikolay knows that he wishes to. He can see it in the way Klaus glances at him: little aborted gestures that do not amount to much else. He ignores them and concentrates his own energy solely on navigating the slick terrain. Mud squelches beneath their feet and the rain does not let up, not even once, making it twice as difficult to see where they are going. Nikolay is admittedly impressed that Jäger made it out this far on his own. 

When they finally reach the overhang, Nikolay’s heart sinks. The roots were not enough to ward off the rain, it appears, and the soil beneath is almost entirely flooded. Not all is lost, however; Klaus must have sensed the impending storm, as Nikolay did, and had stuffed the overcoat between two roots further back.

It is not warm or dry, but it is their only option, so Nikolay shrugs to himself and helps Klaus crawl in with him.

The rain has soaked the majority of the ground underneath the overhang, leaving only a small dry patch protected by the thickest of the roots at the very back. Nikolay spreads the overcoat—which is hopelessly filthy at this point—on the dry floor and then, after wiping the worst of the mud off his face and hands, he starts to undo his own sodden clothing with a muttered “Fuck it,” tossing first his shirt then his trousers to the side and leaving himself wearing only his underclothes. It is hideously awkward, especially with his new awareness of Jäger’s... _ feelings _ . 

With fumbling hands and zero commentaries, Klaus follows suit, uncharacteristically avoiding making eye contact with Nikolay as he does so.

Once they are stripped down and free of their waterlogged clothing, Nikolay wraps an arm around Klaus and yanks him in closer, pressing them tight to contain the feeble warmth that passes between their bodies. As tired as he is of cuddling up to Jäger, Nikolay cannot deny that body heat is incredibly effective against the chill. Klaus agrees, judging by the way he curls into Nikolay’s space and shivers with less intensity. The trek must have really worn him out, as he makes no further attempts to encroach upon him. It is a welcome improvement.

“Look at us, Jäger,” says Nikolay, unsure of where he is getting the energy to find humor in this situation. “First we are fighting, now we are hugging it out. Why have we never tried this tactic before in our previous battles, I wonder? It is remarkably effective on you.” 

_ And I know why.  _

Though the cold lingers, their shared warmth makes it bearable. And yet the cold is only one of the problems that they face. Nikolay is starving, as his stomach reminds him by growling quite loudly. Still no food, despite his troubles. Not even a handful of berries came out of his mad excursion into the woods. It is disheartening.

Anya would know exactly what to say to him, right about now, if she were here, Nikolay thinks with a twinge of pain. She always was good at lifting his spirits.

“Ivushkin.”

Nikolay startles at the broken silence between them. When he turns his head to look at Klaus, he sees the man staring, fixated, at his face.

“Dein Gesicht,” Klaus says, before reaching up to his own face and gesturing at his scarred cheek. Confused, it takes Nikolay a couple of seconds to understand what the man is trying to tell him, but then it becomes clear.

With Jäger watching, Nikolay reaches up to touch the burning lines cut into his cheek, feeling the welts left behind by Klaus’ nails. He winces. The cuts are superficial, but they sting like nothing else. 

“Wir sind übereinstimmenden!”

“Yes, you scratched me,” says Nikolay. “I had almost forgotten. Lucky for me, you are much weaker outside of your precious Panzer. Clawing at me like that instead of throwing a proper punch. What are you, an oversized cat or something? Really, what kind of man scratches another during a brawl? Typical Jäger. I should expect nothing less.”

Klaus simply smiles, rubbing at his own scars. 

His face is not exactly undamaged either, Nikolay notices. A bruise is already flowering on his cheekbone, right below his eye; it is swollen and angry-looking, having tuned several varying shades of red.

“That’s going to be very ugly in a day or two,” Nikolay remarks as he points at the bruise. 

Klaus runs a finger over the puffy skin, pulling a face. “Es ist Nichts,” he says. “Ist nur ein Kratzer.”

“Looks like I got you good,” says Nikolay, grinning at him. He mimes a punch and grins even wider when Klaus scowls back at him in response. 

“Ich  _ sagte  _ ja, es ist Nichts,” Klaus says again, and honest to god he is sulking.  _ Sulking _ . Nikolay wants to laugh but something tells him Jäger wouldn’t take it very well. Instead, seized with an inexplicable boldness, he reaches forward and pushes aside Klaus’ hands, his knuckles grazing the reddened area as he thumbs away a random speck of mud that was smeared across Klaus’ cheekbone. Klaus flinches but does not pull away. If anything, he leans into the touch, just enough to be noticeable.

By now, the rain has died down, and in the soft light of morning Nikolay can make out that Klaus has gone pink in the face. He blinks at Nikolay, and then slowly, cautiously, raises his own hand to Nikolay’s scratched cheek, mirroring him. 

“Auge um Auge.”

He looks ridiculous; streaked with mud, bruised and beaten from their tussle. His hair is in total disarray and faint patches of stubble are starting to form along the line of his jaw. And yet, somehow, this is the most appealing Nikolay has ever seen him.

_ A disturbing thought. _ Nikolay retracts his hand, noting Klaus’ expression of loss as he moves to lie down flat on the scrunched coat. The damp soil has soaked into it from below, but it is still relatively dry on top and definitely better than nothing. Though a bed in Kraslice would be nicer. Preferably one without the German who is currently sitting and staring, inscrutable, at him, like Nikolay is a puzzle yet to be solved.

Nikolay turns on his side, away from Klaus, and watches the rain as it continues to fall; and when Klaus eventually lies down beside him, Nikolay does not pull away. 


	6. Complication

 

It is nearly midday and the rain has still not completely come to a stop. They have spent the past hour huddling together under the overhang, Klaus scratching at his bandages and Nikolay using the rainwater that drips down from the roots to wash the mud off their clothes before wringing them out and setting them aside. 

“Für eine rauchen würde ich alles geben,” drawls Klaus, in the middle of trying to poke a thin twig underneath the many layers of bandages, to little avail. He appears to make a strategic retreat, sticking the twig between his teeth and chewing thoughtfully. “Hab, leider kein Pfeife.”

Nikolay looks over mid-wring and is distracted by the sight of Klaus, smudged with dirt and wearing only his undergarments, hair sticking out at odd angles as if he had been electrocuted. It is bizarre to see him in such a state of disarray. Without the peaked cap and the assortment of decorative medals, without the fresh-pressed uniform and black marching boots. Like looking at an entirely different person.

A dizzying wave of nausea returns him to the task at hand. An ache has steadily been building at his temples ever since he returned to the overhang. It started out small, harmless even, but now the pressure is starting to get to him. It has almost become too much to bear. 

Suddenly, Nikolay sneezes. Klaus glances over, startled, and Nikolay answers his questioning look with a shake of his head. He is just a little cold from the rain, that’s all.

Klaus raises an eyebrow but says nothing. 

It is not long before Nikolay sneezes again, more violently this time. He nearly drops the shirt he’d been holding. Then he does it again, and again, and with each one Jäger’s gaze hardens until the man is practically glaring daggers at him, itchy bandages all but forgotten. Nikolay ignores him and folds the shirt neatly before putting it on the pile with the other pieces of clothing.

Or, at least, he tries to. One more sneeze sends the shirt falling out of his hands and down into a muddy puddle. All his work, ruined.  _ At least it’s not mine _ , thinks Nikolay with some small amount of levity. He sniffles, and then sneezes again.

Klaus clears his throat. Loudly. When Nikolay ignores him, Klaus sits up and reaches over to press his hand against Nikolay’s forehead. 

“Quit that,” Nikolay says, batting him away.

“Du wirst krank werden,” replies Klaus, his expression a combination of frustration and concern. He moves to replace his hand and Nikolay shoves him away once again, rougher this time.

“ _ I’m fine _ ,” he snaps, fighting back another rush of nausea. “I’m fine, Jäger. Ich bin gut. Whatever. Just...leave me alone. You are being a nuisance.” He suppresses another sneeze, picking the shirt back up out of the puddle and throttling it viciously until mud drips from his fingers. It is not as cathartic as he had hoped it would be.

To his relief, Klaus does not try to put his hand on Nikolay’s face a third time. He does, however, sidle closer to Nikolay, pressing them together in a solid line of warmth. A part of Nikolay hates it, how he accepts the man’s touch without even the slightest of protests. Feels as if he is offering not only his acceptance but his approval. It is nice to be touched, however, nicer than it has any right to be, and Nikolay is tempted to bring an arm around Klaus and tug him closer, tighter, just to get some more of that aching comfort that human contact brings. He very nearly does so, but then he catches Klaus looking at him with a familiar expression. A lurking, hungry gaze, lying in wait like a creature in ambush. 

The very same loaded expression he’d worn on his face before they had kissed. 

Something kicks to life in his chest and Nikolay experiences the strangest sense of vertigo as he locks eyes with Klaus. The space between them is fraught with uncertainty, rough and calamitous, more dangerous than a hurricane and twice as unpredictable. 

Klaus senses it as well. His eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and there is a whisper there, in the shadows of his gaze, one that speaks of  _ more _ .

It is easy, Nikolay realizes, to underestimate Jäger. Easy to forget that he is a man of cunning and ruthless strategy even in his current weakened state. Anything he does might be a ploy, a trick, a secret maneuver. Each step, predetermined. Emotions, faked.

So, when Klaus leans in, Nikolay wastes no time in turning his head to the side, feeling lips collide up against the stubble of his cheek.

Jäger withdraws. Before he can hide it, Nikolay catches a flicker of frustration distort his features, turning his expression into one of masked displeasure. As quickly as it appears Klaus destroys all evidence of it from his face, leaving behind only a lingering tightness in the edges of his peeled smile. It is a disconcerting sight. However, it is also exactly what Nikolay needed to confirm his suspicions.

Klaus has an endgame. All this—the touching, kissing, all of it—is part of a grander scheme. Something brewing inside Klaus’ deranged mind and tainting his every interaction with Nikolay. It is not, as Nikolay had begun to suspect, an errant attraction towards him, nor is it simply desperation. No, Klaus has bigger, more sinister plans. 

_ Whatever they may be _ , Nikolay thinks as he returns Klaus’ smile with a thin one of his own,  _ they are not just going to stop. Not now, and not when we reach Kraslice either. Jäger has  _ never  _ given up that easily. And he never will. _

Resentment rises in Nikolay. More games. Always, more games. They will never be able to escape their cursed rivalry, it seems. The contention between them has long since taken root in the deepest marrow of their bones, winding thorny tendrils through their ribs and squeezing, firm as iron, around their hearts. Irreversible. Unredeemable.

“Komm her, Schatz,” says Klaus, reaching for him.

Nikolay twists away from his grip, scowling at the man. “Leave me alone.”

This is immediately followed by another round of sneezes, at the end of which he is left clutching at his head and gritting his teeth against the waves of agony that pulse inside his skull. He rubs furiously at his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pain. It is so overwhelming that, for a split second, he considers asking Klaus to distract him, like he’d done yesterday; his fingers pulling and tugging in Nikolay’s hair until all his thoughts turned to ashes. 

He opens his mouth, seriously considering it, but then remembers the half-hidden look of calculation on Klaus’ face and changes his trajectory midway, instead saying, “Ich...ich bin gut.” 

His voice comes out reedy and weak, much too weak, but he maintains his statement with as defiant a look as he can muster, directed straight at Klaus. He is  _ not  _ weak. And he will not fall for whatever trap Klaus is trying to spring with his poisoned compassion. 

Klaus first appears taken aback. Then, his features morph, slowly, into what can only be described as contempt. He sneers at Nikolay, who sneers right back.

"Du hast gesagt," Klaus mutters, sour and nasty. "Und sagte, und sagte, und  _ sagte _ . Etwas neues lernen, warum nicht? "

“I. Don’t. Speak. German,” replies Nikolay with spite lacing each syllable. Then, to prove his point, he makes a rude hand gesture towards the man, flicking him with mud. 

Huffing, Klaus throws his hands up in exasperation and rolls on his side, facing away from Nikolay so violently that it tugs the overcoat from underneath Nikolay and leaves him sitting in the dirt. Fucking German, coming up with a way to provoke Nikolay that doesn’t involve actual interaction. Mostly Nikolay feels irritated that he hadn’t come up with it first. 

He glares at Klaus’ back, watching the man pick sullenly at his bandages and weighing the satisfaction of yanking the overcoat from under Klaus against his desire to limit their interaction as much as he possibly can.

In the end, he decides against it, returning to his task of drying their clothes and trying his damnedest not to sneeze. It takes about an hour of repeated wringing, but eventually, Nikolay has managed to dry their clothes enough to be wearable once more. He pulls his shirt over his head and slips his trousers on, leaving him holding the ragged scraps of what used to be Jäger’s uniform. It is nearly unrecognizable now, the colors faded and dull. 

Nikolay glances at Klaus (who is now lying flat on his back with his eyes closed) then down to the uniform held in his hands. 

_ He’s already upset. What’s he going to do, pout harder at me? _

The clothing flies across the space between them, hitting Jäger directly in the face. 

Klaus startles and whips the clothing off himself before turning towards Nikolay and giving him a look Nikolay cannot quite place, half aggravated, half...something else. He does not return fire, however, opting instead to start pulling his clothes on, shooting Nikolay nasty looks whilst muttering darkly in German as he does so.

That was not nearly as satisfying as Nikolay had expected it to be. The space under the overhang suddenly seems a lot colder, and Nikolay pulls his feet in close and wraps his arms around his knees, trying to ward off a shiver. With nothing but endless trees and the rain for company, and no one to whom he can speak and be understood, he feels truly alone; but he would rather die than acknowledge this in front of Klaus Jäger. 

Klaus does not speak his language, anyway, so it would be pointless at best. Just like everything Nikolay has done ever since he ran from his friends. Ever since he chose Klaus over Kraslice.

Nikolay gives into his innermost desire and closes his eyes, imagining that he is in Kraslice and reunited with his comrades at last. Anya, Stepan, and Serafim are not with him, of course, but he can still see their faces clearly in his mind’s eye, joyous at his long-awaited reappearance. 

Serafim would look like a pale fish, mouth open wide in amazement. He’d probably blink furiously to make sure he wasn’t dreaming and then beam at Nikolay with a broad grin. _ Ivushkin! You’re alive! I never doubted you, I swear it!  _ Stepan would clap him firmly on the shoulder and smile too; his eyes crinkling at the corners, filled with warm welcome.  _ Good man, Ivushkin. Soldiers of the Red Army must stick together, yes? Next time do not take so long. _

And Anya. Anya would not even hesitate, and Nikolay would find himself with his breath stolen from his lungs as she swept him up in a fierce kiss before cupping his face in her hands.  _ You’ve come back. I knew you would come back. I was waiting for you. Come, sit down on the bed. Stepan made kasha earlier and there is plenty left over. Whatever has kept you? _

Nikolay blinks, and wipes at his eyes, surprised to find tears leaking warm and wet from the corners of his eyes. He dries them as inconspicuous as possible and, for the briefest of moments, believes that he has gotten away with it.

“Ivushkin?”

Nikolay’s heart sinks and he grunts an acknowledgment, doggedly avoiding eye contact by staring at the drizzling rain beyond the gnarled roots of the overhang. Surely Klaus cannot see the wetness of his eyes in this light? Nikolay feels the impending humiliation that Klaus’ silence promises, draped over him like a shroud. It is all he can do to keep his voice steady.

“Ich bin gut.”

Klaus makes a skeptical sort of noise. Nikolay waits for the other shoe to drop, waits for him to say something with a sudden, powerful,  _ aching  _ need to hear a voice, any voice, even Klaus Jäger’s, just to reassure himself that someone real is here with him in the thick gloom of the forest. To know that he is not alone. 

But Klaus says nothing at all. 

Instead, Nikolay hears shuffling as the man drags himself closer, closer, his bandaged leg dragging across the ground. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Turning him until he is facing Klaus, exposed. Laid bare, like an offering. A human sacrifice.

“Sh, sh,” Klaus whispers, stale breath hitting Nikolay’s face. Warm, dry hands come up to cup his face. His thumbs swipe at Nikolay’s cheek, then drift down to rub wetness onto his lips. Tears. Nikolay is still crying. He realizes this with creeping dismay and attempts to squirm out from Klaus’ grip, to salvage what remains of his dignity, but to no avail.  _ So weak. So, so weak. Vulnerability in front of the enemy is a risk I cannot take, not now, not ever, not  _ ever _... _

Nikolay has managed to hold his emotions at bay for so long and through so much, but now, at this moment, he fails. 

He sinks into Klaus’ touch, tears sliding down his face only for Klaus to capture them and sweep them away, watching him all the while with those pale, blue eyes, memorizing the sight of Nikolay like this. And Nikolay does not stop him. 

There is a lump in his throat and at first, Nikolay thinks it is shame; shame, for showing such raw weakness in front of another. But, as Klaus thumbs across his parted lips, he recognizes it for what it truly is.  _ Pleasure _ . A misshapen, ugly thing that makes his stomach go tight, and he suddenly knows with dreadful surety that, somewhere between the aqueduct and the rainstorm, a line was crossed. A line that should never have existed in the first place, a line that goes against everything Nikolay ever believed in. 

And it is all thanks to Klaus fucking Jäger, isn’t it?

Nikolay hates him. Hates his smug grin and hates his strange moods. He seethes with uncertainty as he lets Klaus brush the tears from his lashes, lets him trace gentle fingers over the Y-shaped scar on his cheek and lets him stare his fill; Nikolay’s fingers are curled into the flesh of his palms, lest he grab Klaus and push him back—or pull him closer. Either one spells disaster for the both of them.

If he were a stronger man, he would end this, but he isn’t and Klaus knows he isn’t. It is a classic game of cat and mouse: Nikolay and Jäger, pawing at each other with sheathed claws, waiting for the other to strike first. It will always come back to this. To  _ them _ .

Klaus is pressed flush against Nikolay’s body, so close that Nikolay can smell his sweat, the heavy freshness of rainwater, the dirt of the forest floor surrounding them and the grassy sweetness of linden tree leaves; can see a kaleidoscope of insatiability in the depths of his eyes. 

“Ich weiß, was Du brauchst,” Klaus breathes, practically against Nikolay’s lips. Warm and humid on his skin. “Will ich ihn dir schenken. Lass mich rein, Nikolay.”

Nikolay cannot prevent the hunger that lances through him, rough and unexpected. His eyes drop down, little more than a flicker of movement, and land on Klaus’ lips, and there’s no way that Klaus misses it. He is betrayed by his own body, helpless against the shiver that wracks his frame, swaying him further into Klaus. The tension between them snaps taut.

Nikolay opens his mouth to say something but closes it at the look that comes over Klaus’ face. Gleeful expectation. As if the man can see into the future and knows exactly what outcome Nikolay’s attempt at reason will lead to.

Nikolay reminds himself, as his eyes move without his consent over pale skin and lowered lashes, over battle-torn scars, that Klaus is an agent of death—meant to capture him and cage him, to dash his freedom upon the rocks. Klaus is a hunter. A pursuing beast that must be put down. Klaus’ eyes are half-closed, his gaze loaded. He smirks, deliberately, and Nikolay is struck with the realization that he could easily drive his face forward, could bring their lips together in one smooth motion. Something hot and heavy unfurls inside him at the thought, sending prickles of anticipation running up and down his spine. 

He has already been kissed by that mouth before. It would be bad, he thinks, for it to happen again. And, at the same time thinks that, perhaps, it would not. Another kiss; another opportunity to wrestle control from Klaus. To discover his weaknesses through tongue and teeth, to glean the extent of Klaus’ obsession for him and test its boundaries without fear of being discovered in the act. 

The prospect is thrilling, and Nikolay wishes it wasn’t. He wishes that he weren’t so affected by the intimacy of their bodies; by the sight of Klaus’ own eyes slipping down to Nikolay’s lips in return, as if he cannot help himself. Wishes that he could ignore the way Klaus’ breath catches in his throat when Nikolay shifts just the tiniest bit closer to him. But he can’t. He can’t ignore it, and when he finally frees himself from Klaus’ grip, when they proceed to grapple on the lumpy overcoat, when Nikolay pins Klaus to the ground with his weight to keep him from damaging his own leg like an idiot, it just  _ happens _ . 

One moment he is spread atop Klaus and staring triumphantly down at him, panting and grinning and flush with energy, and the next their mouths are clashing in a gravitational pull of teeth and frenzied heat.

Nikolay’s thoughts slam to a grinding halt, the rush of back-and-forth conflict in his mind overtaken by a chorus of  _ yes, yes, yes _ as he focuses on the slick feel of Klaus’ mouth and the press of his body beneath him. They can’t risk fighting each other physically, and they can’t very well fight each other with words, either, so they use this: Klaus’ hands on his back, Nikolay biting at his tongue and raking fingers through his hair, their lips crushed together and their blood running quick in their veins. It is as good a battle as any.

Wrenching himself from the kiss, Klaus moves further downward. His teeth snap at Nikolay’s throat. Sucking marks into his flesh, brands for the whole world to see. Writing his name in bruises over and over again. Nikolay feels the point of Klaus’ nose where it digs into him, the puffs of his breath hitting hot and humid against Nikolay’s skin. 

“Stillhalten, Ivushkin,” Klaus says. He presses a messy open-mouthed kiss right over the throbbing beat of Nikolay’s pulse; jagged heat, the sensual drag of his tongue edged with sharp points of pain where his teeth sink a bit deeper than they should. “Oder ich könnte beiße.” 

Klaus rakes his nails down Nikolay’s back, and the sting of it ignites a fire within Nikolay’s chest, hotter than napalm and ten times as deadly. His entire body sings with it. Klaus does it again, harder this time, like he wants to leave gouges in his wake, like he wants to make Nikolay bleed for him. That thought should not be so appealing.

“ _ Nikolay _ .” Another kiss to his neck, but fiercer. More demanding.

Nikolay tolerates it briefly before fisting his hand in Klaus’ hair and yanking him back, rough, exposing his throat in turn. Klaus groans loudly, back arching off the ground as much as he is able, increasing the friction where Nikolay is pressed against his thigh and Nikolay is  _ lost _ , choking on a stuttered gasp and rutting down without consciously meaning to, chasing the firm pressure with mindless desperation.

“Scheiße,” Klaus says, a wretched and guttural note in his voice, like the word was somehow torn from him against his will. His chest is heaving, his face flushed red, and when Nikolay ruts against him once more Klaus whines, kiss-bruised mouth falling slack, made helpless with desire. It is an unusual sight to see a man so proud, a man so terrible, conquered in this way. Thrilling, even.

Klaus moans again and grips Nikolay’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer, closer, closer still. There is a snarl hidden behind his teeth, and a familiar look in his eyes: one that is vicious and hungry, one that wants to devour Nikolay and feast until there is nothing left but bones. His cock is hard against Nikolay’s stomach, begging for attention, and it should make Nikolay want to fall back, retreat, leave the forest and never return; it does, but not nearly enough.

On accident, Nikolay nudges into Klaus’ bandaged leg and the man yelps, causing Nikolay to tense in surprise and draw back.

“Scheiße, mein Bein,” Klaus says, wincing from underneath him. They both look down at Klaus’ wounded leg, then at each other. Klaus is panting heavily—so is Nikolay—and his pupils are blown. He looks absolutely debauched. Nikolay is pinning him in place, but he does not wrestle free, does not attempt to gain the upper hand…he just lies there, an odd sort of stillness seeming to have overtaken the muscles in his body. 

Nikolay tries and fails to regulate his uneven breathing; his head is fogged, his mind made stupid with want. Coherent thought is becoming increasingly difficult. It thus comes as a shock to both of them when Nikolay rolls onto his back, pulling Klaus atop him so that his broken leg is no longer in the way.

Klaus, now balanced on Nikolay’s chest and still looking a bit stunned, wastes no time in diving back down to nip sharply at Nikolay’s bruised throat, making Nikolay’s hips twitch upward of their own accord. The slow, sensuous manner in which Klaus explores him is both indulgent and demanding—teeth dragging over Nikolay’s skin followed by a slick tongue, his nose nudged under Nikolay’s chin and his hands moving, constant, incessant; mapping Nikolay, cataloging every detail with those clever fingers, his nails just lightly scratching along Nikolay’s skin. 

Each touch works to undo Nikolay, unraveling his sense of control and sending him spiraling down, down, into the clutches of their shared madness.

Klaus has got a few days’ worth of stubble and the way it scrapes against Nikolay’s own is so unmistakably masculine, so different than anything Nikolay’s ever experienced before. Another thing that sets Klaus apart from Anya. It is a strange sensation, rather jarring—but, Nikolay admits to himself, not entirely unpleasant. 

Nikolay turns his face towards Klaus, and Klaus is on him before he’s even completed the motion. His kiss is fervid and brutal, like Klaus is trying to climb inside of him, and when it shatters they are both left gasping for breath in the aftermath. Nikolay’s heart is an animal: frenzied, wild. It pounds in his chest, dashing itself against the cage of his ribs. He is hard, achingly so, and knows that Klaus is, too.

Without warning, a sound cuts through the forest, loud enough to startle birds from their roosts in the trees. It echoes like thunder, but Nikolay knows a gunshot when he hears one. He is riveted to the spot, utterly motionless, as he listens to the rain pattering gently down on the roots above their heads, to the rapid drumbeat of his own pulse. Klaus has frozen, too; he looks fucked out, chaotic, with his hair in disarray and his pupils fatter than the sun. They listen with bated breath, still tangled up in each other’s arms.

Then come voices in the distance. Shouts and barked orders, spoken in a language all-too-familiar to his ears after four years in captivity. Nikolay’s blood turns to ice in his veins.

_ The Germans.  _

“Nikolay,” whispers Klaus urgently against his lips. 

“We need to leave.”

And they do. Stumbling, limping through the forest, clinging to each other for strength. With each step, they stray further and further from Kraslice, further from their goal, but Nikolay would rather spend another few days stranded in the woods with Klaus Jäger than be killed, or even worse, recaptured. The rain makes it difficult, but Nikolay is nothing if not stubborn, and they eventually manage to put a considerable distance between themselves and their pursuers.

Klaus does not say a word as they flee together from the Nazis. Nikolay half-dreads that he will call out to them, and is prepared to slap a hand over Klaus’ treacherous mouth should he need to, but Klaus holds his tongue and concentrates instead on his footing.  _ This is your chance, Jäger _ , thinks Nikolay as he stares at Klaus’ downturned eyes.  _ You could give a single shout to your comrades and have me living out the rest of my days in a cell, if you wanted. So why don’t you?  _

They continue onward, heading north and stopping only when Klaus gasps in pain from the constant movement. Eventually the rain ceases, and then the sky begins to ripen, but still, they continue, until the voices are long out of earshot and the forest is silent once more.

A cloying dizziness has lodged itself in Nikolay’s brain, emanating outward until his entire body is beset by wave after sickening wave of nausea. His sneezes have worsened as well, earning him side-eyed glances from Klaus every time. He feels like death. It is all he can do to push through it, to grit his teeth and bear it like any soldier would and focus his strength on getting as far ahead of the Nazis as possible.

Nikolay selects their new encampment with trepidation, having felt the breath of the German patrols on the nape of his neck for far longer than he is comfortable with. He itches to keep on moving, to put even more distance between them and see just how close he can make it to Kraslice before he collapses, but Klaus has been leaning more and more heavily on him and Nikolay is too toilworn to bear his weight any longer.

Twilight has fallen, robbing them of their surroundings, and it would be folly to continue in such darkness anyway, so Nikolay finds a rather sheltered-looking niche between two large trees leaning against one another and sets Klaus down on the untroubled soil. A velvet indigo sky stretches overhead, cloudless and sprinkled with glittering stars, but down amidst the woods it is impossible to distinguish more than the faintest silhouettes of too-tall trees surrounding them on all sides like prison bars. 

Once he makes sure Jäger’s bandages have not bled through, Nikolay busies himself with shaking the dried mud from his coat while Klaus lies between the two trees and simply watches him, eyes eerie and silver like the stars above them. Nikolay strains to listen for signs of encroaching soldiers. The forest is alive with the sounds of nighttime insects and the occasional bird call, but he hears no voices and sees no glint of gunmetal, so he allows himself to relax.

“We can’t go back,” says Nikolay, approaching Klaus with the coat and placing it around his shoulders. Klaus scooches over, patting the ground beside him, and Nikolay lowers himself down with a huff, too weary to do otherwise. “Not to the overhang. They will have found it by now. It’s not safe. We need to loop around them, then head directly south. Avoiding the roads, still, even the minor ones. It will take a bit longer, but it is the only choice we have left.”

He then enters a violent sneezing fit. Klaus rubs at his back, massaging small circles of comfort between his shoulder blades that Nikolay cannot help but be grateful for in his current state. The ever-present, gnawing hunger has not left him, nor has the longing to see his comrades again; but human contact helps make the pain a bit more manageable. And, with his brain threatening to melt inside his skull, Nikolay does not care in the slightest that it is Klaus Jäger who is giving it to him.

“Ich sagte: ‘Ivushkin, du wirst krank werden.’ Aber du wolltest nicht hören...”

Klaus sounds... _ concerned _ . It is that, more than anything, that has Nikolay raising his head, locking gazes with him. The man’s eyes have always had a pale sort of beauty about them: even in the dark they appear lit from within, like opaque blue seastones when held to the sun, soft and sharp and cold and warm all at once. Ethereal. It’s too much, and Nikolay has to look away.

When he does, there are a different set of eyes looking back at him from the darkness.

Nikolay holds up a finger to his lips. Klaus stills, his hand coming to rest at the small of Nikolay’s back. The eyes blink at Nikolay. So does Klaus, with a wary expression.

He leans in close and murmurs, “Was?”

A subtle nod of Nikolay’s head directs Klaus’ attention to the eyes still watching the both of them. Klaus’ nostrils flare and Nikolay feels the hand placed on his back curl into a fist. The eyes blink again, large and luminous, then they approach. 

A catlike creature steps from the shadows on silent paws. It is barely knee-high, with tufted ears and a spotted pelt. Long white whiskers catch the starlight as it moves from the trees, sinuous muscles rippling underneath thick layers of fur with the slightest movement. Nikolay stares at it, incredulous. He knows what it is, of course, but has never seen one this close before. The sight of it fills him with a quiet sense of awe, not unlike the feeling he gets when admiring a particularly masterful piece of engineering.

It draws nearer, cautious, as if it wishes not to startle them. Nikolay prays that he does not sneeze and spook it by accident. He holds eye contact with it as it approaches, intrigued by the peculiar shine of intelligence in its feline gaze.

“Scheiße,” Klaus hisses under his breath. “Das ist ein verdammt großes katze.”

There is something held in its mouth, and Nikolay is just about to try and get a better look when Klaus decides to say, very loudly, “Shoo!”

The creature’s ears go flat against its skull and it turns tail, darting back into the underbrush as quick as a whip. 

“Jäger!” Nikolay turns to him, disappointed. “That was a lynx. It was only curious, for god’s sake. You didn’t have to scare it away. They live up here, in the mountains. It wasn’t dangerous. Hell, some people say that it’s lucky to see one. You just scared our luck away, you bastard. That was very cruel of you.”

Aware that he is being chastised, Klaus merely shrugs and offers Nikolay a lame smile. Then he points to where the lynx had been and says, “Es habe etwas verloren. Ja?”

Following the line of his indication, Nikolay sees a small shape lying on the ground. He goes to investigate, squatting down in the damp soil and peering at it before he risks picking it up and holding it to the dim light.

“Looks like we were lucky after all. It left us a gift, eh, Jäger?”

Nikolay stands up and wheels around to show Klaus the broken body of a coney dangling lifelessly from his hand, its neck twisted at an obscene angle and punctured deeply by the lynx’ fangs. Its body is still warm. A recent kill, no doubt.

Klaus lights up with excitement. 

“Ist das ein Kaninchen, Nikolay? Ausgezeichnet! Komm, wir machen ein Feuer und kochen,” he says, gesturing first towards the coney then towards his own mouth as he mimes chewing on invisible food. The effect is a bit ruined by the gap-toothed grin he is sporting. Nikolay still understands the general gist of it, however, and grins back, feeling for the first time in a long while like things are finally starting to go his way.

Together, they manage to dig a pit in the rain-softened earth, deep enough and curved enough to conceal the smoke that a fire will create. Working together, Nikolay admits to himself, they make a good team. A great team, even. Klaus peels the wet bark from branches that Nikolay gathers; Nikolay rubs the spindle he’s made while Klaus holds the tinder nest steady. The coney is a small thing, and quite scrawny, but it skins easily and before long the mouthwatering smell of cooked meat is drowning out all of Nikolay’s senses. He can hardly focus on anything else. 

“It has to be ready by now,” he mumbles, giving the fire a good poke and trying to ignore the rumbling of his stomach as they sit together, side by side. 

“Mein Gott, habe ich einen Hunger,” responds Klaus faintly.

Nikolay waits for as long as he is able before caving in. He takes the coney—which has crisped a pretty golden color—from the fire while Klaus protests and grabs for it.

“Nein! Sie sind krank!”

“You’ll get your turn, just calm down,” Nikolay says, holding it out of reach.

“Nikolay, du bist wirklich  _ krank _ , Dummkopf,” Klaus growls, leaning over Nikolay and swiping for the coney as Nikolay pushes him back with one hand to his chest.

“And I thought  _ I  _ was hungry,” Nikolay remarks, feeling that his spirits have been lifted by an insurmountable degree now that he finally has something to eat. He does not even bother to question why Klaus is so pissed off over which of them gets the first bite. Instead, he waggles the cooked coney like it’s a dog treat, thoroughly enjoying Klaus’ outraged expression.

“Arschloch!” Klaus says. Then, “Bitte, Nikolay?” he tries, endeavoring to sound contrite even as he lunges forward again.

“Look, we are sharing it, alright? I promise.” Nikolay reassures, and takes a large bite before Klaus can stop him. The meat is dry and tasteless, but it also is somehow the most delicious thing Nikolay has ever eaten. For a moment, Klaus is so horrified that he stops wrestling against Nikolay. Then he redoubles his efforts, throwing himself against Nikolay like it is a matter of life or death. 

“ _ Wieso _ hast du  _ das getan _ ?”

“There. Now it’s your turn, you grabby, impatient man. And I know what  _ Arschloch  _ means, by the way!” He sneezes, as if to prove his point, and hands Klaus the rest of the coney while sucking the leftover grease from his fingers.

Klaus watches him, making short work of his own share with a preoccupied expression. An expression that quickly becomes devious. “Ach, so wird es also sein, huh?”

Nikolay is put on instant alert at the tone of his voice, and before he can respond, Klaus’ mouth covers his own while slender fingers seize the curve of his jaw tightly. His hand holds Nikolay in place when he pulls back, long enough for Nikolay to see the malicious intent in the smug quirk of his lips, but Nikolay is not fast enough to prevent Klaus from bringing his other hand up, the one that had been holding the meat, and smearing grease all along the side of his face.

“Der Rest gehört dir.”

“You bastard,” cries Nikolay in mock-outrage, and Klaus cackles with delight as he is knocked over by a playful shove, both of them having temporarily forgotten the importance of keeping their voices to a minimum.

“Du hast es verdient! Und werde ich auch noch krank, dann ist das du Problem.”

They are not comrades. No, never that. But they are not quite enemies anymore, either, thinks Nikolay as he rolls his eyes at Klaus. They exist in a strange middle ground between hatred and friendship, one borne from necessity. One that Nikolay is still trying to figure out; and Klaus does not make things any easier for him, with his sibilant tongue and his seastone eyes, with the laughing and the fighting and the touching and the kissing, with that shit-eating grin and the way he stretches himself out next to Nikolay, his throat bared like an invitation.

“I will never understand you,” Nikolay says.

“Warten und sehen,” Klaus replies, and the chasm of his smile is endless.


	7. Habituation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to MnM_ov_doom and StonedCultist for the encouragement, as well as to all the other people who commented. Thanks, guys. It means the world to me. <3
> 
> There are going to be explicit scenes in the rest of the chapters from now on, so consider yourself warned.

As Nikolay awakens (with no memory of falling asleep in the first place) he is gradually made aware of a throbbing, painful pressure inside his skull; the inert bodyweight of some curled and slumbering creature. When he tries to swim closer towards consciousness, the creature begins to stir warningly, and so he remains where he is, separated from the passage of time, treading the murky grey waters of a purgatory between wakefulness and fevered sleep. 

It is important, he feels, not to provoke the creature. If he does, it will stretch lazily and unsheathe long claws, and then the subsequent knifing pains will obliterate all thought, and he will stand no chance of regaining a clear head. 

So he lies there, rigid with apprehension, knowing that restlessness will not let him drift back into unconsciousness and that the only hope afforded to him is to keep still and wait.

An all-encompassing, sickly agony permeates his entire body. It fluctuates back and forth between either burning him alive or freezing him to death, and he recognizes on some level of consciousness that he is shivering where he lies, drenched in his own sweat and struggling to breathe; the labored gasps of air that he manages do little to soothe the flames that lick at his chest and throat, reaching him where he floats in limbo.

The space where he and Klaus are pressed together is nigh unbearable, like touching a hot stove. Everything hurts, including his stomach. Despite their meal of cooked coney, Nikolay is still weak with hunger, and now there is a dry tickle in his throat, too: the onset of dehydration. Their water flask is dangerously close to being empty and that, more than anything, is a cause for concern. Starvation can be dangerous, but without water, they are as good as dead. 

It has become a grim race for Kraslice at this point: Klaus and Nikolay versus their own failing bodies. Only time will tell the victors.

With dread in his heart, Nikolay admits to himself the reality of his situation. As much as he wanted to deny it earlier, it is now beyond evident that the chill of the aqueduct in addition to his time spent in the rain have taken a serious toll on his health. Fever has overcome him, and as he drifts, dozing, in the grey immateriality of his own mind, he grapples with the consequences.

Habitual strategizing has aided him in the past; mapping out his surroundings, formulating different methods of escape, identifying the best positions of defense with pinpoint accuracy and determining the exact moment in which to strike. It is a sixth sense, an instinct that pumps through his veins and drives him forward, vital and ever-present. What to others would be irrelevant details are to his tactician’s mind, which is well-oiled like the shifting mechanisms of a tank engine, threads of potential in a tapestry of his own making. 

The Nazis are a daunting roadblock, but nothing more. Nikolay knows the way to Kraslice, knows the paths to avoid and turns to take. He had studied them specifically for a situation just like this one. Now if only he could just  _ concentrate _ .

As the creature continues to slumber, tail twitching on occasion, Nikolay fights against the current of his mind that threatens to sweep him away entirely. The more fevered agony he feels, the less he can focus. Though he yearns to shake himself awake and continue onward, especially with Kraslice within a day’s journey at most, the pain keeps him pinned in place.

Nikolay tries to draw up blueprints of the forest in his head, but every time he does the images are accompanied by a sharpened set of knives that claw at the walls of his skull, the pressure shifting dangerously behind his closed eyes, and his half-finished sketches are torn to shreds by the resulting agony. Even the simplest of diagrams prove too much for him.

And so he lies there as the minutes— _ hours, days, years _ —slip by.

He tumbles away into a doze but is woken rather abruptly by a hand, plunging through the depths of the black murk, gripping his own, pulling him from the maw of the undertow and leaving him shuddering with new awareness, fever dripping from him like sweat. 

It was Klaus who had wrested Nikolay from the endless purgatory of his own mind; his face, blurred and silhouetted by moonlight, stares down at him with a look of concern. Slashed scars and sleep-tousled hair catch the light of the stars, giving Klaus the look of a wild thing, like he is a creature of the forest as well as the lynx. The sight of him like this is a far cry from his former appearance, back when he had been clean-shaven and presentable.

Somehow, he looks just as dangerous like this, despite his state of disarray. Perhaps it is the gleam of intelligence in his eyes. Or perhaps Nikolay is simply delirious.

“Ich habe dir doch gesagt, du würdest krank werden. Hast du drauf gehört?” Klaus says, shaking his head. “Nein. Natürlich nicht.”

By his tone, Klaus has just scolded Nikolay, but for what reason Nikolay cannot possibly know. It's not like he  _ wanted _ to get sick. He tries to say as much, but the very instant he opens his mouth a coughing fit snatches his words. Klaus begins massaging circles into his back, between his shoulder blades, all the while making small sounds in the back of his throat. Though they bear no real semblance toward speech, Nikolay somehow understands. 

Klaus is concerned. He...cares. In a twisted and impossible way, he cares for Nikolay, for the man who nearly killed him. Klaus had protected him from the Nazis, after all, back when he chose to keep silent as they fled from the sounds of the soldiers. 

_ And what’s so special about that? _ A voice nags from the back of Nikolay’s mind.  _ Of course he wouldn’t have called out to them, because then it would be Game Over. They would send him away for good. He’s a fugitive now, just like you. It would be idiocy to surrender himself for the sake of revenge. No, he is planning something else, and you would be a fool to drop your guard even for a second.  _

Nikolay tries to listen, he pokes at the embers of old hatred inside of him in an attempt to reignite the flame and remind himself of every legitimate reason he has to despise the gap-toothed German, but Klaus makes it difficult. When he puts a hand to Nikolay’s forehead, Klaus is gentle; when he strokes back the sweat-sticky hair from Nikolay’s face, he is tender. He has plastered himself to Nikolay’s side, guarding him against the rest of the world. Nikolay had never imagined he would feel so safe in the jaws of a predator. 

The thought sends a dark shiver down his spine, distinct from the chills of fever. It kicks his senses into overdrive and suddenly Klaus’ closeness bothers Nikolay for an entirely unprecedented reason:  _ he’s not close enough. _

Nikolay shoves this thought away with all his might and tries to wriggle from Klaus’ embrace, putting up a token amount of resistance, but his efforts are half-hearted at best, the memory of Klaus’ tongue in his mouth rather ruining his feigned indifference. Klaus scoffs knowingly in his ear before pulling him closer, nuzzling his face into Nikolay’s neck and wrapping lean arms around his waist.

“Entspann dich einfach.”

“Too hot,” Nikolay mumbles in response. Klaus’ proximity is messing with his head, turning him incoherent. Or maybe that’s just the fever.

“Jetzt ist es an mir, für dich zu sorgen,” Klaus says, and then squeezes him. A flutter of warmth erupts in the pit of Nikolay’s stomach, dangerously close to what he had felt the first time Anya and he had kissed. 

_ Don’t be a fool, Kolya _ , says the voice inside his head.  _ No matter what you do, you mustn’t let him in. Keep your guard up, or else he will be your downfall just as you were his. _

Nikolay feels clammy and sweaty and stifled, and a large part of him wants to push Klaus away, but an even larger part, the part that craves human comfort and has done so for the past four years, welcomes the feeling. His entire body aches, his joints are stiff and his eyes are burning despite the cool night air and it hurts like hell to breathe, but the sensation of arms around him and a heartbeat thudding alongside his own serves to somewhat lessen the discomfort that cages him.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, his words slurring together as they escape from his lips. “I can't. You and me...we shouldn’t. Klaus. You’re a German, you’re… Did you forget? Or do you just not care?”

Klaus does not respond, instead bringing a hand up and carding it through Nikolay’s hair. It feels wonderful and Nikolay cannot help but sigh as he leans into the touch, all his misgivings evaporating into thin air. The nagging voice quiets down at the ministrations of Klaus’ clever fingers, and eventually, it ceases entirely, leaving in its wake a peculiar sort of peacefulness. Nikolay’s eyes slip closed and he hums before he can stop himself.

A rumble goes through Klaus’ chest. Laughter, or perhaps some sort of pleased purr. The sort that belongs to a cat; one of the large ones, with jutting fangs and eyes like polished jewels.

“Jetzt ruh dich aus, ja?”

“Still can’t understand German. Dummkopf.”

Klaus tugs on his hair, playful retribution. It pulls a chuckle from Nikolay. They lie there, together, luxuriating in each other’s company. The woods are tranquil and, despite his endless worries of the new trials morning will bring them, Nikolay allows himself this moment of respite, curled under a canopy of twinkling stars beside a man whose destiny has become hopelessly entangled with his own.

Time passes, and before long Nikolay has slipped back under, once again marooned in the murky waters of his own subconscious. He is sightless and alone, caught adrift on the Styx without a paddle and subject to the weakness of his own body. 

Sickness envelops him and carries him out with the tide until he is well and truly submerged. Time slows to a standstill. While he floats there, in that vacuum of grey space, Nikolay passes in and out of dreams, catching only the briefest flashes of image and sensation.

Nikolay sees himself sitting at a table in a dark room. And across from him is none other than Klaus Jäger, idly shuffling a deck of cards. 

Klaus regards Nikolay silently, with a smile that goes no deeper than his lips, his head cocked to one side, studying Nikolay with penetrating blue eyes. His pipe juts from the corner of his mouth, sending lazy puffs of smoke spiraling up towards the ceiling. A light burns down on them from directly above the table, illuminating the gleam of polished medals on Klaus’ uniform, which is clean and intact just as it had been back in the camp as if the events of the past few weeks had never taken place.

And, without pausing in his card-shuffling, Klaus speaks around the pipe in his mouth, his teeth glinting in the light.

“I’m here, Nikolay.”

“Yes. I can see that. I’m not blind, you know. If I was, then maybe you would stand a better chance against me in combat.”

Klaus laughs. “That’s my Ivushkin.”

He winks across the table and Nikolay feels, against his will, a flush of all-too-familiar heat blossoming within him like wildfire, catching every inch of him ablaze and reducing him to cinders. His face burns at Klaus’ words. At the implications behind them. 

“I’m not your anything.”

“Oh, is that so? Then why am I here?” Another cloud of smoke rises in front of Klaus’ face, obscuring all but his uniformed silhouette. “Why me, Nikolay, and not your mother? Your friends?  _ Her? _ You know the answer as well as I do. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Fuck off. You don’t know shit.”

This earns another chuckle from Klaus; but, this time, his voice is lower, deadlier. The angular composure of his face gives nothing away, but even so Nikolay senses a gulf between them over which, though they sit within touching distance, their voices barely carry and then fall flat, without so much as an echo. And suddenly, the darkness of the room feels distinctly hostile, and Nikolay hurries to change the subject.

“What is it that you want from me, anyway?”

The smoke clears. Klaus looks at Nikolay from underneath the brim of his peaked cap, still smiling. And now there is an edge to his grin where there wasn’t one before.

“Reciprocity.”

Slowly, intently, Klaus deals the cards, and never once takes his eyes off Nikolay as he does so. And Nikolay returns his stare without surprise or emotion, although he knows even in the dream that surprise is the normal reaction and that the lack of it is telling. 

The cards are blank. This is odd to Nikolay, and he wonders how Klaus expects them to play with blank cards, but when Klaus finishes he holds up a card with a triumphant smirk, his scars twisting at the corner of his mouth, and Nikolay sees that this one is not blank at all, but adorned with five golden branches unlike any playing card he has seen before.

There is writing on it. He tries to get a closer look, but the script on the card is hopelessly blurred and he cannot make heads nor tails of it.

“Is this our card?” Klaus asks, still looking Nikolay dead in the eye and grinning as if he already knows the answer. And as he looks around, Nikolay sees that the room is not only dark but completely empty, the walls and floor starved of decoration, hungry and void and closing in on him like jaws.

And then, when he turns back to face Klaus, Anya is there, as if she had been sitting in front of him the whole time.

Nikolay startles, unprepared for the way his heart constricts in his chest. Guilt, and longing, too. Faintly, he hears the sound of insects buzzing, the telltale hoot of an owl, and the rustling of leaves in the wind. If he tries, he might be able to better distinguish them, but a surreal panic has overtaken his mind and scrambled his thoughts. He moves to speak, to say something, anything, but his voice has been stripped from him. He frowns and tries again, only to encounter the same result.

Anya is unaffected by this. She sighs once, twice, and says, slowly, as if she too is caught in the tangled web of her own dreams, “You chose him, Nikolay. Over me. I was waiting, just like you told me, but you never came. You went to  _ him  _ instead.  _ Him _ , not  _ me _ .”

And, as Nikolay watches, her expression shifts, becoming angrier and angrier, until the raw intensity of her gaze forces Nikolay to avert his own. The sounds in his head grow louder and louder, the buzzing of insects turning into static and the rustling of leaves into the shrieking howl of an approaching hurricane. His entire body aches, both distantly and immediately, and his head feels likely to split at any second, painfully fragile. 

“Why, Nikolay? I wished to love you forever, Nikolay!  _ Forever! _ ”

The table dissolves, the dream shattering apart underneath its own weight. And he is drowning in thoughts that are seething and whirling, sucked down an invisible drain, doomed never to brush the light of consciousness, and despite all his struggling Nikolay is pulled down the drain after them, sinking further into the fevered depths of his own mind.

Nikolay is his childhood home. Sunlight streams in through an open window, casting the dining room in a cheerful glow. Everything is the exact same as it had been when he had left, not a single detail out of place. 

He hears his mother in the kitchen, humming to herself a tune familiar to him after years upon years of hearing it as a child, though the lyrics have been swallowed by the sands of time. Something about her voice is wrong, notices Nikolay absently; rather like a finger smudge on glass, or a coffee stain on a hardwood table. Something that taints the melody in a way he cannot quite explain to himself.

Then Nikolay remembers that he has invited company over, so he turns to look over his shoulder. Behind him, there is a presence, and Nikolay sees, with a clarity that is unusual for dreams, the figure of an overlarge, familiar-looking cat sitting in his shadow.

The lynx, curled up on the floor with its paws tucked neatly underneath its chest, raises its head and, opening its enormous, lustrous golden eyes, looks at Nikolay with a startlingly clear and discerning expression. Its stare is nothing like that of an animal, and Nikolay is struck with the uncanny sense that someone else is studying him carefully through those eyes.

And Nikolay speaks to the creature, his voice coming through suddenly, out of time with the working of his mouth, and whatever he says is lost to him, as if he never spoke at all. And it blinks at him approvingly, padding over to stand at his side

“The choice is yours,” says the animal wisely, nodding its head in the direction of the window. Light catches on its whiskers, and in its face, there is reflected wisdom beyond Nikolay’s years. Something old and powerful, something nobler than most. 

“What’s your name?” Nikolay asks, too distracted by his regained power of speech to be surprised at the fact that he is talking to a large cat. 

“I don’t know,” the lynx says ponderously, flicking one of its tufted ears. “I have one, I’m sure. I just can’t quite recall it at the moment. I am terribly hungry, and have nothing to eat. Perhaps, if I ate something, I would remember.”

Then, as Nikolay stands in the warm sunlight, he recollects that his mother had prepared food for him. Reaching into the pocket he didn’t know he had, Nikolay pulls from it a dry biscuit, split in half. And even in the dream, his stomach grumbles eagerly at the prospect of food; but Nikolay was raised properly and so he proffers both halves of the biscuit to the lynx instead.

“All I have is this biscuit.” And the lynx gazes at him. “Please. Take it. You are my guest, and I want you to take it. You need it more than I do.”

“Thank you,” says the lynx after it has eaten both halves of the biscuit from his hand. “You are a good man. I wish to reward you for your kindness in turn. Just tell me what you would like.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Yes, you do.” The lynx lifts one massive paw and begins to clean itself, rasping a meticulous pink tongue over fur and claws. “Speak, soldier, and be heard. Our time is short.”

And this is true. Nikolay knows it, somehow. He feels a tugging sensation. Recognizes the unsteadiness of a dream about to give way. His subconscious is preparing to whisk him off once more and send him spinning back into a fevered purgatory, never to return here.

“You’re no beggar,” mumbles Nikolay under his breath. “Where’s Klaus? He...he was here...I saw him, earlier. Klaus Jäger. I was taking him with me. To Kraslice. It has taken longer than I thought, and the Germans are closing in on us, and I don’t know how much longer we can last like this. Please, tell me, are we going to make it?”

“Wait and see,” replies the lynx with amusement clear in its voice. “And remember: when the time comes to choose, choose wisely. Now go, return to him. He is waiting, Kolya.”

Then he is back on the bridge and Klaus is in front of him, hand outstretched, eyes big and blue and more brilliant than all the stars in the sky. 

Nikolay moves forward without hesitation, grabbing Klaus’ hand in his own, and time slows to a halt. Then, like winding back the clock, he watches himself move in reverse; from the bridge to the tank ambush to the drive towards the village to his night in the woods with Anya. He brushes his lips against hers, gentle at first, a question, then with growing courage until he is bringing his hands to her face and pulling her closer,  _ closer _ , closer still. 

She leans into the kiss, pressing firmly against Nikolay’s mouth with her own, inviting him in. An invitation he gladly accepts.

He recalls in his dream the way she had moaned, the arch of her back, the feeling of her body underneath his. Thinks of Klaus’ Panzer and how he had felt the tremor of its approach on the aqueduct bridge like electricity up his spine, in his very bones, so much more apocalyptic than her lips had been, trailing against his skin.

Anya moans his name, and Nikolay wants her, he wants her so much, but even in his dream there is a part of him that knows Klaus is somewhere in the wilderness, watching and waiting. He feels the weight of pale eyes on him like a curse and it sets his every hair on end. Nikolay tries to peer up into the forest, but he cannot see past the line of trees; when he looks back down Anya is gone and it is  _ Klaus  _ gazing up at him,  _ Klaus  _ moaning his name with that sinister smile and dragging Nikolay back down to him.

Nikolay snaps awake with a start, his heart pounding.

The details of the nightmare about the cards and the talking lynx are quickly wiped from his memory, but Nikolay can still feel the ghost of lips pressed against his own. He is racked with fever, his body consumed with an icy fire, breathless and gasping and horribly aroused all at once. Klaus is lying behind him, rigid and unmoving and, for once, completely silent. 

It is still dark, but the light of the bare moon filters down through the clouds enough for Nikolay to see Klaus with crystal clarity. He lies on his side next to Nikolay, his mousy hair a mess, watching through heavy-lidded eyes like he’s expecting something.

For no reason at all, Nikolay turns, slowly, as if still dreaming, until he and Klaus face each other. He takes in the sight of the other man, studying the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the wild flare of his nostrils and the subtle twitch of his fingers towards Nikolay. Unlike before, Nikolay knows that this is no dream, as much as it might feel like one.

He has known Klaus for years, but he has never  _ looked  _ at him. Klaus was The Enemy, practically a different species altogether. That sly, angular face, the smirking mouth—if he had ever thought about him at all, Nikolay might have said he was reptilian in appearance, with an ugly cruelty defining his features. Now he sees it is a strange attractiveness—something sculpted and sharp about the face, especially around the cutting edge of his cheekbones, with a bold slant to the jawline, and a narrow, curving set of lips.

 The closeness of them, the shared heat of their bodies, the tension in the air, the pooling light of the stars in Klaus’ eyes is debilitatingly sensual. There is a part of Nikolay, a part of him that he had never before acknowledged, that yearns to reach out. A part of him that wants to drown himself in those icy blue eyes. 

Nikolay knows that to give in would only complicate an already-far-too-complicated situation, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, giving in would be better than denying himself. 

No, it wouldn’t. It would be worse, but he still wants it. He has to have it. He wants it to be worse, and damn the consequences. He couldn’t stop himself before, when the taste of fervent animosity electrified the space between them as Klaus threw a glove onto the ground, in challenge; and he cannot stop himself now.

The next few seconds that pass feel like an eternity. Caught and crystallized; suspended in a drop of amber. Klaus stares at Nikolay, and Nikolay stares back, and neither of them dares speak lest the moment come crashing down and reality flooding back in; the dangers of the woods and their need for water as pressing as the shadow of the many-legged beast that hunts them both—the German soldiers, hot on their trail and every second growing closer. 

Here and now, at this moment, none of that matters anymore. All that matters is the way Klaus is looking at him. “Nikolay,” Klaus murmurs as if he cannot quite help himself, savoring the weight of Nikolay’s name on his tongue, his gaze reverent.

With a surety that takes them both by surprise, Nikolay lifts a hand to Klaus’ face, running his fingers through hair that is unexpectedly soft beneath his fingers. Klaus inhales shortly before pushing into the touch without hesitation. He nudges a kiss against the swell of Nikolay’s palm, his gaze dizzying and  _ intense _ , so intense, cauterizing the raw wounds of Nikolay’s fevered subconscious with their brilliant blue flame.

Nikolay swipes a thumb along Klaus’ bottom lip, then eases Klaus’ mouth open with it, slipping inside just a little. Klaus’ gaze blackens, his pupils blown and his breath coming hot on Nikolay’s skin. He holds his mouth open, obedient for as long as he can be, until, like a crashing wave, he surges forward and fits his own mouth against Nikolay’s, his kiss hard and relentless. Their collision is glorious, all teeth and wet heat and thundering chaos.

Klaus’ tongue presses in, to ravage and desecrate, and Nikolay gives it no quarter. Klaus can take, but he cannot take any more than Nikolay is willing to give, and he certainly cannot expect Nikolay to roll over with his belly in the air and submit at the first sign of a challenge.

He cannot expect Nikolay to submit, but Nikolay does it anyway, letting his mouth fall open and a moan slip past his defenses for the thrill of it. Klaus makes an answering noise of triumph. His hands grip the front of Nikolay’s shirt, haul him closer, sending shockwaves of foreign pleasure through Nikolay’s fevered frame. He’s never in his life surrendered like he’s doing now, never; and especially not to another man. 

They have kissed before, of course; the play of lips and teeth becoming almost as familiar as the blast of tank fire and ricochet of shells. But this time notes Nikolay, something is different. Something has changed between them. 

And, like a gear clicking into place, Nikolay realizes with wrenching clarity the true design of the trap he has fallen into. Somewhere along the way, amidst all the looks and touches, the desperation and slow reliance, Nikolay had slipped, and now there’s no saving him.

_ I’m so sorry _ , Nikolay thinks, Anya’s face still fresh in his mind. In the face of everything he has always been loyal, both to his comrades and his country, and now it is a single German soldier that proves his undoing. There is no point in justification anymore; not when his every attempt has grown feebler and feebler. There is no excusing the way he burns for Klaus’ touch like a man possessed. 

Guilt wracks Nikolay’s heart but at the same time there is a thick fog descending over him, snuffing out the candle of rationality that had burned lowly in his mind. All that remains is the feeling of skin against skin and a slow, simmering heat that curls at the base of his spine. The bittersweet memory of Anya’s kiss is not enough to curb his searching lips, his questing hands. He is febrile and delirious and can no more control himself now than he could on that fateful day when Klaus plunged into the black depths of the aqueduct.

_ This is it _ , thinks Nikolay to himself with a touch of fevered hysteria.  _ The trap was there all along, right in front of me, and I never even knew it, couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He baited me, didn’t he? This whole time. He wanted me to feel like this, for him. The ultimate victory. And now it’s too late to go back, too late to undo what has been done. I’m beyond redemption and falling fast.  _

_ … Might as well drag him with me on the way down. _

Klaus smirks through bared teeth and kisses Nikolay mockingly on the side of his mouth, getting a bitten lower lip for his troubles. They are close, so close that Nikolay can feel Klaus’ cock hard against his hip, his breath against Nikolay’s face. Nikolay rolls his hips forward experimentally. Klaus chokes on an inhale, and Nikolay hears himself make a throaty sort of groan. His eyes flutter closed and his hips move once again, this time on their own accord. 

“Meine Güte,” Klaus says on a gasp, and his voice is still scratchy with sleep; he jerks his own hips forward, driving against Nikolay’s with near-violent force

“Fuck,” Nikolay responds, swallowing hard. Then, in a surge of boldness, he slips his hand up underneath the material of Klaus’ shirt, letting it rest on his bare chest. His palm smoothes over a light smattering of hair and several small scars, and then his thumb skates across a nipple and Klaus  _ whines _ . He actually fucking whines: a high, shocked sound that ignites the blood in Nikolay’s veins with predatory excitement. Feeling more than a little reckless now, Nikolay pinches it, waiting for a reaction.

He is not disappointed. Klaus moans—a desperate, needy sound. “ _ Ach du Scheiße _ ,” he manages, his body arching violently into Nikolay’s touch. It is difficult to make it out in the dim lighting, but Nikolay can see the reddening of his face as Klaus struggles to get even closer than he already is, cursing under his breath and panting lightly in turn. Nikolay pinches again, adding a bit of a twisting motion, and Klaus’ cock jerks roughly in his trousers. He whines again, shuddering. 

“You really liked that,” Nikolay says, half-mockingly, fist still tight in his hair, forcing Klaus’ head back for the hell of it. “Didn’t you,  _ Fritz _ ?”

The noise that claws itself from Klaus’ throat is inhuman, animalistic, almost a snarl. Dangerous. Reminds Nikolay of exactly who he’s dealing with. A high-ranking German soldier, the same exact soldier who shot him in the chest and made his life torment for so many years. Nikolay falters briefly, thinking maybe he went too far, pulled a bit too roughly, but then Klaus’ eyes snap open wide, capturing Nikolay’s own in a blaze of vivid blue. 

They freeze in place. Odd as it is, Nikolay has never felt this powerful before; not even when he had first shown off at Klaus’ behest, back in the camp, spinning and twirling in the rehabilitated T-34 in front of all those wretched German officers with their clean-cut uniforms and their hard-earned admiration. Klaus had looked right at him when Nikolay and his crew brought the T-34 to a halt, and there had been something in his stare. An undertone of emotion that Nikolay could not identify at the time. He had assumed it was mere self-satisfaction and promptly forgotten all about it.

Now, watching Klaus fall apart beneath him at his touch, seeing the way Klaus had looked at him then magnified and amplified inside this suspended flash of eye contact, Nikolay thinks he can identify the emotion that he’d seen lurking in Klaus’ gaze.

They both grunt as Nikolay shifts his hips, aligning himself flush against Klaus. This is all the permission Klaus needs for his hands to fly to Nikolay’s waist and his mouth to fasten onto the skin of Nikolay’s collar, teeth dragging, leaving hot sparks of arousal in their wake. Klaus presses biting kisses into Nikolay’s jawline, overlapping the bruises that already litter his skin and prompting a warning growl from Nikolay who, after instinctively fisting a hand in Klaus’ hair, loosens his grip and—slowly, warily—tips his chin back in tacit acquiescence.

It’s...well, it’s not bad. In fact, it is surprisingly  _ good _ : Klaus’ slender yet capable hands gripping high over his waist, his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, his fire matching Nikolay’s own. The years-old friction between them has taken a different, more literal form and Nikolay gasps as it builds, bucking harder, and Klaus meets him with a muffled moan and a thrust. They go from rocking against each other to battling each other with teeth and nails, because this is the way it has always been between them, a showdown to decide who wins and who loses in their own little fucked-up game of strategy, and before long they are both panting and bitten and scored with each other’s nails. Nikolay’s undergarments have grown damp at this point but he cannot bring himself to care. 

“God! Shit, come on, Klaus. Do your worst, you bastard, come on…” 

Nikolay leaves the thought unfinished, too preoccupied with the motley cocktail of pain and pleasure assailing his senses. Can’t help the way he cries out when Klaus takes him up on the challenge and sinks his teeth deep into the juncture of Nikolay’s neck and shoulder, sucking a violent bruise into his flesh. Nikolay just barely manages to yank him back by the hair before Klaus draws blood.

“Ich werde Sie ruinieren, Schatz,” Klaus hisses, teeth bared, but there is a smile lurking somewhere in his voice, mawkish and far too pleased with the situation, and Nikolay does not know how he can decipher that from the tone of Klaus’ voice, doesn’t know how he recognizes the smug curl of Klaus’ mouth from intuition alone, but he does.

“Fuck, Klaus! I didn’t tell you to  _ maim  _ me,” Nikolay starts, but forgets whatever else he was going to say the second Klaus’ mouth latches back onto his neck, soothing the sting of the initial bite with the warmth of his tongue. He is distracted, unable to prevent it when Klaus’ hands slip down low, below the small of his back, sliding over his rear and groping him like he’s some sort of curvaceous maiden. 

_ The nerve! _ Nikolay tenses up, indignant and a bit nervous. He doesn’t know what Klaus’ intentions are, has no clue how far Klaus wants to take things between them, but after spending enough time in a prison camp away from the company of women he has a vague idea of what sex between two men involves, and Nikolay is  _ not  _ about to bend over like a girl for Klaus’ satisfaction. Thankfully, the hands leave his rear; instead, an arm comes back around to clamp against Nikolay’s waist and keep him in place while the other hand moves to the outline of Nikolay’s cock, palming the length of him through his trousers. It pulls a guttural sound from Nikolay, has him bucking his hips forward into the feeling.

“Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr?” Klaus says breathlessly, glee lighting in his eyes. He laughs—gloating and saturated with confidence, absolutely drunk with it. “Sag mir, Nikolay. Ich möchte, daß Du bettelst. Scheiße. Sieh dich nur an. Du bist so verdammt schön. Ich habe auf diesen Moment gewartet. All die Jahre wollte ich, dass du mir gehörst, und jetzt habe ich es endlich geschafft. Und ich bin dein, verstehst du nicht?  _ Es Schicksal _ .”

Things have escalated between them in a matter of seconds and Nikolay has no way of slowing down, no way of stopping this inevitable crash from taking them both over the edge. His heart is pounding in his chest. He doesn’t remember how to breathe. It’s too much, and simultaneously not enough. He needs more.

 “Ah, god! Klaus,  _ please _ ,” Nikolay gasps and covers Klaus’ hand with his own, not thinking.

Klaus pauses, breath hot against his pulse and Nikolay feels his fingers flex, pushing upward, the digits slipping between Nikolay’s own like they belong there. He squeezes Nikolay’s hand, once, before slipping out of his grip, redirecting his attention to Nikolay’s trousers. 

Nikolay can feel how wet he is through the fabric, the sensation of slick precum-coated fabric rubbing against his cock forcing a shameful noise from his lips. Klaus strokes him roughly, his scars distorted by the sly grin spreading across his features. Then in one fluid motion, he shoves his hand down the front of Nikolay’s trousers and into his undergarments, not bothering to remove anything beforehand.

It’s filthy and illicit, almost like it had been with Anya when they had needed to keep as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the tank crew. Back then, neither of them had bothered with fully disrobing, leaving them half-clothed and huddled close as they shared each other’s bodies under the light of the waxing moon. This time, however, there is no soft skin, no sweet nothings; instead, there is rasping stubble and teeth at his throat, there is friction and blistering heat and snatches of whispered German that may as well be threats for the ferocity with which Klaus spits them out.

Hand still grasping Nikolay’s length, Klaus works him over once, twice. Nikolay’s whole body thrums at the contact. “Fuck, that’s good,” he blurts, his head swimming with sensation.

Getting impatient, Klaus pulls Nikolay free of his underclothes and trousers altogether, shoving them down to mid-thigh, and Nikolay doesn’t even have to look down to know that his cock is fully hard and leaking precum, absolutely dripping with it. The open air hits Nikolay in a cool rush and a shiver wracks through him, a twist in his gut at the sudden feeling.

Klaus’ hand is a bit clumsy with Nikolay despite his show of confidence. It’s clear that he has never touched another man in this way; has perhaps barely even touched himself. He squeezes far too tightly at first and Nikolay yanks at Klaus’ hair in reprimand. Klaus grunts something that sounds almost like an apology and slackens his grip. With his hand now wrapped comfortably around him, Klaus gives Nikolay a slow, teasing stroke, his eyes glued to the sight, bright and calculating as he glances back up to gauge Nikolay’s reaction. 

“That’s better,” Nikolay huffs, “ah, shit, just like that, like  _ that _ . Fuck.”

He stares down, watching with hazy interest the motion of Klaus’ hand moving up and down his length, thumb slicking over the head and drawing an involuntary moan from the depths of Nikolay’s chest. Klaus smirks triumphantly and redoubles his efforts. 

Nikolay is a mess. His entire world has been narrowed down to the glide of flesh and heat of Klaus’ hand on his cock, his concentration shot to pieces. An unnamed urge causes him to lift his head, seek out those pale eyes, only to be met with their gaze already fixed on him. Lining him up in their sights. 

He remembers reading something in a book, once: something about an abyss, and the dangers of looking into one. Nikolay reckons that Klaus’ eyes are more dangerous by far than any abyss, and twice as endless. He feels devoured by those twin depths, swallowed up entirely by the yawning gulf of the man’s obsession towards him. The intensity of it, the intoxicating pull of the abyss, has Nikolay digging his nails into the nape of Klaus’ neck, leaving behind little crescent-shaped welts. Klaus’ breath hitches on a gasp but he does not retreat. 

_ My name _ , thinks Nikolay to himself dazedly;  _ I’m going to write my name on his flesh. On his soul. Just like I did with his face. I’ll mark him so completely, he’ll never be rid of me. Never in a million years. He’s going to be mine and he’s going to  _ know  _ that he’s mine, and I’ll make sure he never forgets it. _

Animated with a sudden, feverish determination, Nikolay fumbles around in the dark until he maneuvers a hand between their bodies, brushing against the tent in Klaus’ trousers as he unfastens them. He slips his fingers past the rim of Klaus’ waistband, finds the bare length of Klaus’ cock and  _ grasps  _ it purely to hear the groan that slips unbidden from Klaus’ throat. And, god, is it ever so strange—feeling another man’s girth in his hand, rather than his own. It is familiar and yet staggeringly foreign. Nikolay takes a moment to steady himself in the face of the desire coursing hot and heady through his veins.

“Shieße,” gasps Klaus, “das fühlt, ah, fühlt sich gut an.”

Nikolay secures his grip and moves as he would with himself, the switched angle throwing him off but for a second. Klaus fits in his palm, so unbelievably hard and smooth to the touch; the man himself has gone pliant, his mouth fallen open and his knees spread wide apart. Mindful of his injuries, Nikolay manhandles Klaus how he wants him, making it easier to slot himself between Klaus’ thighs before giving him a few exploratory strokes. 

“Ja, shieße.” Klaus shimmies as close as he can physically get, wrapping his good leg around Nikolay’s waist like an anchor. “Komm schon. Weiter, Nikolay, bitte, bitte.”

It’s such an immense feeling of power, to be so intimate with the man who nearly claimed his life. Nikolay savors it. The combined rush of adrenaline and arousal is enough to have him moaning aloud, unable to censor himself any longer.

Klaus is enjoying it as well, that much is clear. He is making breathless, needy little gasps with every touch, and, fuck, if it isn’t the most mesmerizing display Nikolay has ever seen. Fleeting scraps of German reach Nikolay’s ears, some of them even half-recognizable: words such as  _ more  _ and  _ please  _ and, confusingly,  _ sweetheart _ ; words that make his chest constrict and the warmth in the pit of his stomach flare up like a bonfire.

It is with a start that Nikolay finds himself flipped over onto his back and Klaus’ mouth mashed against his own. He accepts this change, too far gone to fight against it even if he wanted to—which he doesn’t. Klaus hums greedily, smiling into the kiss as Nikolay licks past the seam of his lips. He bites down on Nikolay’s tongue with just enough force to hurt then withdraws from the kiss almost immediately, keeping their faces a hair’s breadth away from reunion.

“Ich hab mich noch gar nicht für die Lebensrettung bedankt,” Klaus whispers, the expression on his face unreadable, flickering between too many emotions for Nikolay to distinguish. He is glistening with a faint sheen of perspiration, the moonlight through the trees turning his skin to silver and his scars into gleaming veins of quartz. The blue of his eyes appears wholly eclipsed by the black of his pupils. Swallowed by an endless void. The effect is surreal. Celestial, even.

Straddling his hips, Klaus pushes him down until Nikolay is lying flat against the earth with his clothes soiled and his breath coming in gasps. Nikolay half-expects to hear another gunshot, to be interrupted yet again by their German pursuers.

No such luck. Instead, he is left sputtering as Klaus runs his fingers along the head of his exposed cock, collecting precum and bringing it to his lips to taste. The sight is shocking and vulgar and Nikolay wants to hold it in his mind’s eye forever. Something inside him starts to come unraveled. Klaus has so much power over him right now, Klaus has the upper ground, and Nikolay could take it back if he really wanted to with one well-placed kick but he  _ won’t _ , they both know he won’t. Nikolay doesn’t even try to push Klaus off, just shudders and arches up beneath him, chasing after the warmth of his skin.

“Shieße,” says Klaus, “shieße, Nikolay, sieh dich an,” and he crowds closer, the line of his body pressing every inch of Nikolay into the ground with exhilarating intention, pinning him. Trapping him. Nikolay cannot escape from this creature atop him—indeed he cannot imagine any predator more devious, more cruel; a beast with sharp claws and a sharper grin, one that has hunted him since the day they met with terrifying single-mindedness.

“ _ Atemberaubend _ .”

He sounds so fucking reverential, so utterly blasphemous that Nikolay has to turn away, tucking his face against Klaus’ neck and mouthing aimlessly at bare skin. Sweat, salty and sweet at the same time, coupled with faded undertones of smoke from the fire. He tastes like the forest, like Klaus, like cunning and pride and the thrill of the chase.

 Nikolay has begun to rock his hips upward, again and again, fucking into the slick feeling of Klaus’ hand on him. There’s a roaring in his ears like a tank shell is blowing its way through his skull and he can’t focus on anything but the feel of Klaus on top of him and the way his fingers are deftly working him over, every stroke causing his vision to go white with pleasure. He gasps, throwing his head back.

Klaus is at his exposed throat within seconds, kissing over the tender marks he had left there. Nikolay embarrasses himself with an inexplicable urge to tilt his head further, bare his neck even more; he wants Klaus to bruise him again.  _ Aches _ for it.

Too flustered to analyze that thought any further, Nikolay squeezes his eyes shut, distracts himself by rolling his hips, coaxing Klaus into a jerky, desperate rhythm that has them both panting and straining against each other. Fatigue is creeping into his limbs but Nikolay ignores it; ignores the gnawing hunger and the ever-present sickness buzzing inside his skull like a cloud of midges. There will be time to worry about those things later.

Intense, simmering heat is building in his stomach, devouring everything in its path. Nikolay surrenders himself to it, gladly. His fortifications have fallen, all his walls torn down, and he’s aware on some level that even the control of his own body has left him—tiny gasps and moans escape him at an embarrassing frequency, sounds that have Klaus clutching at him with clawed hands. He likes the noises; likes watching Nikolay succumb beneath his touch.

“Nochmal,” Klaus urges frantically, all hot breath and sharp angles and clever, stroking fingers, his breath hot against Nikolay’s mouth, his body twisting against Nikolay’s own. “Nochmal, Nikolay, bitte, für mich.”

“ _ Klaus _ ,” says Nikolay, overwhelmed. He gets a thumb stroking over his cheek for it, Klaus cupping his face gently with one hand and continuing to stroke him haphazardly with the other. The juxtaposition makes his head swim.

Nikolay wants to do this forever. Forever and ever, as long as they both shall live; nothing but hands and mouths and teeth and bruises, sweat-slick skin and swollen lips and every nerve in his body doused with gasoline, set ablaze. He groans in a wrecked voice as Klaus brings their cocks together, grasping both at once,  _ shit _ , and they both are left choking, gasping for air, shuddering head to toe with pure exhilaration. Klaus’ hand moves faster, urgent, his breath hot against Nikolay’s cheek.

It is too much. Klaus is too much, and when he crashes down to claim Nikolay’s lips, licking his way inside and kissing him harder than Anya ever did, Nikolay feels the ground begin to give way beneath his feet. Klaus thrusts against him, fierce and incredible, and Nikolay groans, long and loud, his entire world narrowed down to the glide of his cock against Klaus’ and he can’t believe it, he can’t believe how good it feels.

He almost doesn’t notice that Klaus has started to speak, muttering rapidly against his mouth: “Ich möchte dich sehen. Ich will dich sehen fallen, Nikolay. Komm, tu es für mich. Nur für mich. Immer für mich.”

Klaus leans in, just barely brushing the suggestion of a kiss against his lips, and it pushes Nikolay over the edge. His vision cuts out, and all he can hear are the hitching, gasping sounds he makes as he comes, shuddering, breathing hotly into the crook of Klaus’ shoulder. His senses return, slowly, and when they do he discovers that Klaus came as well. The space between their bodies is sticky with more than just sweat.

Nikolay blinks sluggishly, registering Klaus’ mouth on his own, warm and wet, and, too, the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. Grounding him. It feels only right in the moment to move his hands on either side of Klaus’ face and pull the man closer. 

Over the sound of Klaus sighing softly into his mouth, Nikolay can make out the rustle of wind through the leaves overhead. They stay like that for some time, lost in each other as the sky lightens overhead with the dawning of the sun. The woods are quiet, and Nikolay cannot quite bring himself to disrupt the strange energy that has settled over the two of them. By the time the first birds awaken, heralding the arrival of the morning with their song, Klaus has moved down to his jaw, smoothing kisses like apologies over the scattering of bruises that decorate Nikolay’s skin. Nikolay allows it for the time being.

There is a plan forming in his mind. A diagram sketching itself into being, crude and half-formed but better than nothing, and it has him silent and staring blankly up at the trees as he waits for it to come together.

Klaus yawns, still lying atop his chest, and it quite nearly startles Nikolay out of his reverie. This strange and tender state of companionship they seem to have fallen into is alarming, more so than any of his other interactions with Klaus have been in the past; but he cannot spare a thought toward it now, not while the fever is lying in wait within him. Sooner or later, it will strike, and when that happens he knows that he will be as good as dead unless they have made it to Kraslice. 

It has been days and days that Klaus and he have been stranded out here, wandering in the middle of the wilderness as their chances of survival grew steadily slimmer. It is possible that, by now, the rest of the tank crew have moved on from Kraslice with heavy hearts, believing him to be gone for good. It is possible that they never even stuck around in the first place. 

_ No _ , thinks Nikolay to himself with a frown.  _ They wouldn’t do that to me. Not Stepan, and definitely not the rest of the crew, either. I should not think of them so callously. We are comrades, are we not? Red Army soldiers until the day we die. Unbreakable. They would wait for me. Anya would wait for me. _

He screws his courage to the sticking place, batting his worries aside. They have no place in a situation already so desperate as this. Before he can think better of it, he's talking, as much to distract himself as it is to prolong the much-needed comfort that Klaus’ proximity gives him.

“Look, there.” He points up past the canopy, at the remaining handful of stars that glitter like dewdrops in the pinkening sky. Klaus follows the line of his finger, looking up as well.

“See that? The bright one, near the horizon? That’s Zorya Utrennyaya. The Morning Star. You can tell because it is brighter than the others. It does not flicker as they do. In the morning, it always rises above the sun, in the east. You know east, right? Ost?”

“Ost? Ja. Die Sonne geht immer im Osten auf.”

“Right, yes. East. So Zorya Utrennyaya points us toward the east. It tells us where the sun will rise. And there,” he points past Klaus’ head at a familiar cluster of stars, “is the saucepan. Part of the Great Mother Bear’s tail. See, there’s the handle, and if you follow that line of stars upward from the lip of the saucepan, counting one, two, three, four, five up: you find the polar star. That one points north. Norden. Es Norden sterne, ja? If you are lost, find that star and you will find true north, no problem.”

“Das ist der Nordstern?” Klaus asks curiously. He is resting his head on Nikolay’s collar and gazing towards the polar star with interest.

“Nord...stern. Yes. Kraslice is south, not north, but you can still use the Nordstern to find south. Just move in the opposite direction.”

Nikolay grabs Klaus’ hand in his own and uses it to trace a path in the sky, delineating southward starting from the polar star. “There. Süden. Kraslice.”

He realizes with a small spark of unease that Klaus is not looking south but staring directly at him instead, eyes narrowed and dark with something Nikolay refuses to name. When Klaus next speaks, it is soft enough to be mistaken for pleasantry, but there is a low warning in the tone of his voice; his teeth glint as he bares them. “Und was passiert, wenn wir da sind? Zu Kraslice?”

“That’s where we are going,” Nikolay replies, cautiously. He doesn’t know how to deal with this sudden mood that has tainted the conversation between them, doesn’t even know where it came from in the first place. Klaus is not satisfied by this and narrows his eyes even further. Not saying anything else, he struggles to his feet, leaving Nikolay lying on the ground. It is bright enough now to resume their traveling, and if all goes well then they might even reach Kraslice before midday. This should fill Nikolay with excitement—after all, the end of their journey means the end of his time with Klaus—but, for some reason, the prospect isn’t quite as thrilling as it once was.

Returning his gaze to the sky, Nikolay spares one last glance at the stars, saying a quick prayer to Zorya Utrennyaya for good luck before he stands as well. His head spins with vertigo: the fever is sapping at his strength quicker than he had expected. It is taxing simply to remain upright, let alone to carry the burden of his own body through the depths of the forest. To make things worse, the creature inside his skull has begun to stir, the repetitive scrape of claws over bone sending shockwaves of agony through his weakened frame. It is clear that he won’t be able to remain on his feet for much longer.

He’s not too worried, though. Kraslice is close now, so damn close, and the day is still young. They’ve made it this far, after all. What could possibly go wrong?


	8. Exoneration

As it turns out, their struggles are not over yet. Not by a long shot. It was foolish to think any different, really.

_ Four years _ , thinks Nikolay to himself as he trudges along on wobbly legs, _  four years and seven escape attempts. And I fucked it all up, didn’t I? All that planning, all that incredible luck, and yet here I am, with  _ him _. He might as well be my shadow, for how closely he sticks to me. _

He sneaks a sideways glance over at the man walking beside him. Sees the way Klaus is starting to droop more and more, every step dragging heavier as the fatigue catches up and despondency settles in. Nikolay himself is barely hanging on; sheer impetus the only thing carrying him through the motions of putting one foot in front of the other. Each step is a result of momentum alone and he knows with grim certainty that, should he come to a stop, the last scraps of his wavering willpower will desert him, so he grits his teeth and forces himself to continue.

At least they can see where they are going: silver strands of light filtering through the clouds hang from the trees like cobwebs, casting the forest in a hoary shroud. The hours have begun to blur together, their whole journey seeming an impossibly surreal and endless trek through the exact same span of woodland. Every tree looks the same, every stone and bush and branch identical. 

To make matters worse, the weather is worsening. Clouds are gradually clustering together, ugly, dark and thick, blotting out the rest of the sky. The cold from a couple of days prior has returned, too, with a bitter vengeance. Having forgotten his ushanka at their resting place, Nikolay has nothing to protect his ears or face from the nasty weather—but, then again, neither does Klaus, which cheers Nikolay somewhat, though not as much as it once would have. Their frozen breath puffs out in front of their faces while they continue to limp towards Kraslice. Klaus’ teeth are chattering, and Nikolay’s would be as well if he wasn’t biting firmly down on his tongue to muffle the noise. The pain helps him focus through the haze of fever.

He knows that he is getting worse. His breath is raspy and weak, and every step drains a little more energy from his dwindling reserve. Soon, there won’t be any left at all. Nikolay does not want to think about what will happen when that moment comes.

There has been neither sight nor sound of the Germans ever since yesterday, which could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing. Nikolay is hoping for the former. Perhaps the gloomy forest maze has led their pursuers astray.  _ Or _ , he thinks glumly to himself,  _ perhaps they are lying in wait and we are stumbling right into their trap like sheep to the slaughter. _  If they are discovered by the Germans, then that’s the end of their desperate bid for freedom. Klaus would most likely suffer severe punishment for his failures, and Nikolay? Well, he would probably be killed outright.  _ Unless… _

He had led a group of men and escaped more-or-less successfully from a Nazi camp. It would not be surprising if they wanted him alive and sent back to the prisons, back to the endless cycle of torture and interrogation. Nikolay shudders at the thought. His spirit is strong, but he does not know if he has the strength left within him to withstand another day behind bars. Given the option, he’d rather starve.

Nikolay swallows, feeling abruptly sick to his stomach. Whether the Germans are close or not, they must keep moving, always moving, never stopping, not even to try and find something to eat or drink. Kraslice is their last chance.

He is startled out of his dark reverie by a grunt of pain coming from right next to him. Klaus has stumbled and fallen to the ground, his face twisted with pain and his body curling in on itself. The large branch he has been using as a crutch has tumbled out of his grasp.

“Klaus,” Nikolay says without thought, moving to his side and kneeling to check on the man’s injured leg. It is not a promising sight. The last of the bandages are soaked through with blood and coming hopelessly undone. Nikolay starts to remove them with clumsy, trembling fingers. He cannot help but wince at the state of Klaus’ leg; not only are his wounds bleeding again and with startling abundance, but the rest of his leg is swollen and red. The stink of infection clings to the soiled bandages and Nikolay wrinkles his nose but says nothing about it, and neither does Klaus.

Since the last of the bandages are gone, Nikolay tears strips from his shirt (which is relatively clean, thanks to the rain) and binds Klaus’ leg as tight as he can without cutting too much circulation.

Klaus hisses lowly, his teeth clenched and hands balled into fists; but when Nikolay is done he reaches up and cups Nikolay’s face in the curve of his palm, sweeping his thumb over the Y-shaped scar on Nikolay’s cheek as he mutters his thanks in slurred German. He knows just as well as Nikolay does that they do not have long before they both succumb to the heavy pull of exhaustion.

Nikolay tries to stand and pull Klaus to his feet but is struck by a wave of nauseating dizziness and ends up dropping back down to his knees, trembling and panting. Sheer stubbornness is only enough to keep a body going for so long. Like an ill omen, there is a sudden rumble of thunder from the cloud canopy, echoed by his growling stomach.

“Wir sollten längst da sein.”

Klaus shivers as he speaks. His lips are bitten and bruised from their earlier activity, and Nikolay is struck with the senseless urge to lean in and taste them once more.  _ No. Now is not the time. What the hell am I thinking? I need to focus, damnit.  _ He frowns and looks away, glancing back up at the ominous clouds. 

Klaus does the same. His brow furrows. He must be thinking the exact same thing as Nikolay:  _ the stars are gone. _  Swallowed up entirely, and of no more use to them. It is impossible to check and see if they are still moving in the right direction.

“Schau! Die Sterne sind weg. Ein weiterer Sturm kommt auf, und so wies aussieht, könnte es schlimm werden.” The usual fervid spark is absent from Klaus’ eyes, leaving behind a drab hollowness that looks out-of-place on a man such as him. “Wir sind so gut wie tot,” he finishes. The way his mouth quirks up into a rueful half-smile, the same exact smile he wore on the aqueduct bridge, tells Nikolay all he needs to know: Klaus is on the verge of giving up. He thinks they will die out here, that much is obvious. 

Nikolay cannot help but feel a flood of sympathy for the man. He, too, is worried that he will draw his last breath in the forest, miserable and starving. The despair from a couple of days ago has returned in full force, dogging at his heels and breathing down the back of his neck. To surrender to it is tempting, but Nikolay resists the urge. He hasn’t come this far to give up now. And neither has Klaus.

“Hey,” he says, catching Klaus’ attention and holding it with a steely look. “Don’t you dare give up. Don’t give up on me, you understand? I won’t let you. Fuck, I’ll drag you all the way to Kraslice if I have to, just like I dragged you from the Panzer.”

Something clears in Klaus’ gaze at that.

“Yes, that’s right,” continues Nikolay, “you sank with the Panzer, your Panzer, all the way down to the bottom of the water, and I brought you back to life, didn’t I? So you can’t give up, not now. I’ll not let you, Soldat. Okay? You’re coming with me. You’re—shit, how do you say… Du bist mein. Mein, got it? You’re stuck with me just as much as I’m stuck with you. We’ll make it out of these fucking woods and we’ll do it together, damn it. You and me. Du und Ich.”

Klaus remains quiet, wholly attentive, as he listens to Nikolay speak; as if he can understand him, even though Nikolay knows perfectly well that he cannot. The last few words have his eyes flaring wide with shock and the expression on his face caught midway between disbelief and admiration, but with a third emotion thrown into the mix, something that Nikolay cannot discern. He doesn’t have time to figure it out before Klaus is suddenly leaning into his space and kissing him.

They’ve kissed before, several times over, but they’ve never  _ kissed _ . Not like this. Where their other kisses were violent and heated and antagonistic, this one is the exact opposite. It is disarmingly gentle, and the new hesitance manifesting in Klaus’ movements has Nikolay’s chest aching fiercely.

Nikolay returns the kiss, his hands sliding up into Klaus’ hair without his permission, and Klaus practically crawls into his lap and knocks him over, startling a winded laugh out of Nikolay when his back hits the dirt. They should not be wasting any time, not with Kraslice so close at hand, but that does not stop Nikolay from pulling Klaus closer, chasing away the grimness of their situation with the firm press of Klaus’ body against his. Perhaps it is simply instinct, or perhaps there is a more complicated, hidden motive at play within him; whichever it is, Nikolay cannot bring himself to care anymore why he so desperately needs Klaus to be close to him. He just does.

He feels Klaus’ moan rumble in his chest as he deepens their kiss. It is wrong, for so many reasons, but Nikolay is growing used to these bouts of affection from Klaus, even though he knows that they cannot last. Not once he is reunited with Anya.

Klaus kisses Nikolay in a sloppy, passionate way that Nikolay has not experienced before, not with Anya and certainly not with anyone else. It is all tongue and teeth and breathless devotion as Klaus licks hungrily into him. Nikolay clutches harder at Klaus’ hair just to maintain some control of the situation but it hardly does him any good. Thinking clearly proves impossible while Klaus is being so agonizingly gentle with him. He loses track of how many minutes they spend like this, lost in each other’s touch, giving and taking in equal measure. It is only when Nikolay tastes something salty and wet on Klaus’ face that he pulls away.

Klaus is  _ crying _ . There are tracks of glistening wetness on his cheeks, and his eyes are puffy. He stiffens, caught in the act, and glares balefully at Nikolay, rubbing the tears away with a frayed sleeve.

Nikolay knows he himself must look a mess—neck purpled with bite marks, stubble covering his jawline in rough patches, a starved frame and gaunt prison complexion. But Klaus, god, does Klaus look a mess, too. And it’s not just because he’s scrubbing at unshaven, tear-stained cheeks. This whole time, Nikolay has been willingly blind to the graphic extent of Klaus’ physical transformation, but he cannot ignore it any longer.

The man is thin, thinner than Nikolay has ever seen him, even during their first encounter when Klaus had sported his mess of a beard, and he is also terribly pale. A walking corpse. His hair is unkempt and his face bordering on skeletal. By far, the liveliest thing about him is the presence of his blue eyes, which have remained the same through all their hardships, all their trials. It is this that reassures Nikolay Klaus still has life in him, more so even than the white puffs of breath that escape Klaus’ lips and the uneven pulse of his heartbeat.

Klaus stares right back at Nikolay, still-sniffling, silently challenging him to say something. The moment strains with tension; but, after Klaus comprehends that Nikolay is not about to make fun of him for his weakness, he sidles closer. Nikolay releases a breath he did not even know he was holding in, his attention drawn to the way that Klaus’ quicksilver eyes are darting back and forth and back and forth again like he’s worried that Nikolay will bolt at the slightest movement. Nikolay reaches out and takes Klaus’ face in his hands to center him.

Klaus leans into him the moment he does, fluttering his dark lashes against Nikolay’s palm. Nikolay swallows down the rush of emotion that surges up from his chest and wipes a lingering tear from Klaus’ bruised cheekbone, saying in a soft voice, “We’re going to be okay. You and me. We’ll be safe, I just know it.”

Klaus doesn’t understand what he says, can’t possibly understand, but mumbles a reply anyhow, and brings his arms to wrap around Nikolay’s waist, ducking his head in the crook of Nikolay’s shoulder. His warmth is more than welcome. Nikolay hugs him back—because this is undeniably a hug, as much as Nikolay hates to admit it to himself—and cannot prevent his hands from running up and down Klaus’ back, not-so-subtly pulling him in even closer. Klaus chuckles against his neck and starts moving his mouth, trailing light kisses up to Nikolay’s jaw.

Nikolay’s breath hitches embarrassingly when Klaus reaches his lips. Klaus kisses him slow and sweet, their mouths slotting together like puzzle pieces. Nikolay sighs into it. This is good, he can see it now. This is something better than hatred and bitterness, more healing than vengeance and twice as satisfying. He needs this, needs it like the air he breathes, and Klaus does, too, judging by the way his arms tighten around Nikolay’s body.

Now, Klaus has moved back down to his neck, mouthing at the most recent bruises and trailing parted lips up the line of Nikolay’s throat. His stubble catches against Nikolay’s own and the friction sends a thrill of heady anticipation down his spine. The phantom throbbing of teeth in his flesh reminds Nikolay all-too-well of what Klaus is capable of once given free rein of Nikolay’s body—and, too, of just how good it felt. He groans, Klaus’ name sitting heavy on the tip of his tongue; they shouldn’t, they really shouldn’t, not now.

Before either of them get too carried away, Nikolay tightens his grip on Klaus’ hair and drags them apart, sitting up. Klaus chases after his lips and, when Nikolay manages to evade him, whines, “Nikolay, komm schon, nicht aufhören!”

Studiously ignoring Klaus’ blown pupils and flushed cheeks, Nikolay glances up at the sky on instinct. It’s hard to tell how late in the day it is thanks to the many layers of clouds. A familiar smell reaches him: damp, vaguely metallic. The smell of an approaching storm.

“Klaus, we really should go. There’s no time to waste with…with fooling around. It might rain. Rain—shit, what’s rain?” He pauses, thinking. “Uh, Wasser? Himmel. Himmel Wasser. Ja? Rain. Do you, uh, du ver-verstehen?” His German is clunky at best, but it must get his point across because Klaus looks first up at the sky then back at him with a bemused expression.

“Regen, meinst du?”

Unsure if the word Klaus said means what he suspects it might, Nikolay raises a hand and, fully realizing how stupid he is about to look, wiggles his fingers while slowly lowering it. “Like this. Himmel Wasser.”

Klaus’ face screws up, and then he bursts out laughing. “Himmel Wasser, mein Gott!” He clutches at his sides, gasping for breath. Nikolay rolls his eyes, but a traitorous smile threatens to spread across his own face. The man’s snorts of laughter were once something that disgusted him just as much as the fascist uniform and icy gaze did, but now, after the past few days of nothing but misery and sickness and struggle and survival, he finds himself comforted by the sound. Almost fond of it.

Klaus ends up laughing so hard that he winds himself and is left gasping for air. There are tears in his eyes once again, though this time they are mirthful.

“Yes, yes, very funny,” says Nikolay. “Go on, laugh. I’d very much like to see you try and say something in Russian. Then the tables would be turned, wouldn’t they?”

“Schon klar, schon klar.” Klaus turns toward him, still snickering, and tilts his head to beam innocently at him—that goofy, gap-toothed grin another part of Klaus that has remained untouched by the hardships of late. Nikolay feels a familiar, thrilling heat flare up within his core. It is almost as if Klaus can ignite the old antagonism between them with just a look. Damn the man.

Klaus leans in, his gaze fixed shamelessly on Nikolay’s lips. “Nur noch eine...”

He slots his mouth over Nikolay’s, inelegantly—Nikolay is forced to grab his face and angle it so that Klaus’ nose is not digging into his own. The man is clearly still a bit gauche when it comes to kissing, which says a lot about the lack of intimacy in Klaus’ life prior to the events of the past few days.

Then again, perhaps neither of them really know what they’re doing. Nikolay finds his hands fumbling at Klaus’ waist, searching instinctively for familiar curves and instead finding sharp angles, narrow hips. All his experience has been with women, of course, and he had never really thought about how to hold a man before. He is hardly clear-headed at the moment, with the fever still swamping his mind, but he is still not as carried away with lust as he had been earlier this morning, when they’d…

Nikolay feels his cheeks start to burn. It is hard to believe that they had done  _ that _ . Kissing is one thing. Kissing can be chaste. But what they had done, after they’d kissed? That was anything but chaste. An act like that, between two men, was not looked kindly upon in most societies. And yet, knowing this does not curb the growing thirst inside of him.

_ It’s the fever _ , Nikolay tells himself, inching closer.  _ And the woods. They’re playing tricks on my mind, making me want things I don’t actually want, making me forget who I am. Somehow, Klaus has wormed his way into my head with those strange looks and soft touches, and now I don’t know how to get him back out again. He’s a piece of me. _

He remembers with inexplicable clarity the way Klaus had looked, last night, lying next to him. In a fit of restlessness, Nikolay had occupied himself by staring at the man’s darkened silhouette and studying him like he would one of his tactical maps. Moonlight barely dusted across the terrain of Klaus’ face, but Nikolay could still distinguish his features, and his placid expression, too, sprawled beside Nikolay with his eyes closed and breathing steadily through his nose. At that angle, Nikolay could also see the lattice of scars carved deep into the man’s cheek. They had looked deeper in that moment, more raw and open. 

Nikolay was reminded then, oddly enough, of Klaus as he had lain, half-drowned on the bank of the aqueduct, after he’d fallen from the bridge and was dragged to shore. The thought had frightened him at the time. It still does.

Klaus’ face is scarred, damaged irrevocably and held together by silvery stitches of flesh; but it is whole at the same time, whole and lovely, as if the scars splitting his face are not detractions but rather pieces of a grander design, irremovable and unredeemable. Lacking his scars, he would have a different face. It therefore stands to reason that, without the scars, without  _ Nikolay _ , he would not be Klaus Jäger at all—at least, not in the ways that matter. Perhaps Nikolay is keeping him whole, just as much as his scars are.

Not that Nikolay had put it that way to himself at the time. He’d simply closed his eyes, trying and failing to picture Klaus with an unmarred face. Before long, he had drifted off without realising it, Klaus’ visage seared into his brain.

“ _ Klaus _ ,” Nikolay says on a gasp. Their legs are hooked together sharply; they have gravitated together, not so much as a whisper of space between their bodies. “I… I want to, really, but we should—” he starts, only to be quickly silenced as Klaus leans in and swipes his tongue over Nikolay’s lips. Alarm bells are ringing very, very faintly somewhere in the back of Nikolay’s brain and warning him repeatedly of the dangers that distraction will bring, ordering him not to reciprocate the man’s touch, not now; but he does anyway, open-mouthed and hungry. 

“Scheiße, ja,  _ perfekt _ , Nikolay.  _ Wunderschön _ .”

When Klaus kisses him again, it is nothing short of sinful. He sucks teasingly on Nikolay’s tongue, rolling his hips deep and slow as if to make his intentions clear. Nikolay is floored by an internal chemical rush that sets each of his nerve endings alight one by one until he is composed of nothing but flame.

“Mach schon, sag meinen Namen,” Klaus breathes against his lips and Nikolay does not close his eyes, has not the foresight to shield himself from their overwhelming proximity. 

He would have been truly lost to his own pleasure had a thought not struck him then and there. It had hidden, coiled, watching and waiting with black, beady eyes, and when he drew close enough to it, it had darted forward, sinking its fangs into him. He feels the chill of its venom seeping through his body, turning his blood from fire to ice in his veins. 

_ This is it. This is the last time we have together before we get to the village and go our separate ways for good. Before Klaus and I are enemies again, and he doesn’t need me anymore just as I won’t need him. This is the last time. _

Nikolay blinks, dismayed. Distraught, even. He had known, of course, that the end was inevitable. It was something that he had looked forward to, once. Like a prize to be won for his efforts. Save the man’s life, and in turn be rid of his malevolent shadow once and for all. But now… _ but now… _

“Nikolay? Geht es dir gut?”

Klaus is peering at him with obvious concern. He puts a hand to Nikolay’s forehead, tutting and frowning as he takes Nikolay’s temperature, as if he’s not the reason Nikolay is so flushed and sweaty in the first place. Blue eyes sweep over his face and the softness in Klaus’ expression causes Nikolay’s heart to falter.

It is difficult to say exactly when his desires had shifted: when Nikolay had gotten so attached to the fascist bastard that the very thought of leaving him behind made his chest tighten and his eyes sting, but he had, and now he’s well and truly fucked. Of all the outcomes he had mentally prepared himself for,  _ this  _ is not one of them. It is too much, far too much for him to grapple in his current state.

_ I’ll deal with this later _ , thinks Nikolay. If he cannot silence the whirling maelstrom inside his skull, he will shove it into a box and lock it tight, stowing it away until his judgment is no longer clouded by fever and desperation.  _ Once I get to Kraslice, I’ll be safe. No more running. No more surviving. And no more Klaus. I will have Anya again, and Stepan, and Serafim, too. I won’t…I won’t  _ need  _ him anymore. There won’t be a reason for us to stay together, or for me to feel this way. Not once we reach the village. I’ll be back with my comrades and he can return to…to whoever he has to go home to. A wife, maybe. A family of his own. People who can understand him and be there for him. People he actually cares for. _

That last thought leaves a bitter tang in his mouth. Fingers twining through his hair drag him from his inner conflict and he notices that Klaus is leveling him with a somber gaze, his expression muddled with too many emotions to parse. More than anything, the sight of it makes Nikolay feel drained. He hadn't meant for any of this to happen when he’d saved Klaus from the aqueduct, and now it’s far too late to go back for either of them.

“Nikolay. Dir geht es immer schlechter und du kannst es nicht vor mir verbergen. Wenn wir zu spät kommen…” He sighs heavily. Looks away, his expression tight. “Ich brauche dich.”

Despite not having a single clue what Klaus is saying to him, Nikolay’s breath flutters free from the cage of his lungs. There is an odd, feverish lucidity buzzing through his system, something akin to acceptance. 

No matter what happens—whether they reach Kraslice, or are captured, or even perish out in the middle of the wilderness—their remaining time together is at an end. He knows this for certain, feels it in the marrow of his bones alongside the wretched sickness that has been pupating within him. It is useless to deny it. So, if this is truly one of their last moments existing in glorious, chaotic tandem, then Nikolay wants to remember it. He wants to remember everything: the ambush, the escapes, the chasing and the fighting and the way Klaus snarls like an animal just as readily as he melts beneath Nikolay’s touch; the way his eyes sometimes shine with strange tenderness, the goading lift of his brow, and even the wrinkle of his scars when he smiles.

Nikolay wants to recapture the taste of him, wants it suddenly and immediately, so he lurches forward and seals Klaus’ mouth with his own, ignoring the flood of nausea that washes over him at the swiftness of his movement.

And Klaus responds with careful enthusiasm, kissing him as if Nikolay is liable to shatter apart under too much pressure. His hand is still in Nikolay’s hair and it clenches, his loose grip just as cautious as his lips when they glide across Nikolay’s own. After some coaxing, Klaus’ mouth falls open and Nikolay chases the heat of it, angling his head for better access. The inside of Klaus’ mouth is velvet, hot and wet and smooth. It has Nikolay licking deeper, shoving himself closer despite a muffled grunt of protest from Klaus as he single-mindedly pursues the other man’s tongue.

Klaus rearranges himself, moving his wounded leg safely out of the way, then he uses his arm to hike Nikolay’s knee up, allowing for a better angle to grind against him. Nikolay gasps, then whines high in his throat. He can no longer tell up from down, left from right. His whole world is obliterated; the cold, the sickness, the gnawing hunger, all of it recedes until nothing is left save for the warmth of Klaus’ embrace. Nikolay gladly sinks into it.

Klaus slides a hand up Nikolay’s back, coaxing him ever-closer, and Nikolay rolls his hips for the simple pleasure of it. A tiny noise of encouragement issues from the back of Klaus’ throat as the man responds in kind. 

Curiously enough, Klaus remains docile this time around, his claws sheathed even as Nikolay claims his mouth. Where he once was comparable to the fiercest of lions, he is now about as vicious as a tame housecat—his hands move to cup either side of Nikolay’s face, gentling the kiss even further.

Nikolay cannot pinpoint the exact moment that the atmosphere changes; Klaus’ lips soften ever-so-slightly against his own, his fingers go from gripping to stroking, carding their way through Nikolay’s hair, and then, suddenly, it is just…different. The new tenderness of it wrenches something off-kilter inside of him. It is jarring how poignant this exchange is when compared to their previous fumblings, all teeth and white-hot frenzy. He doesn’t recognize this version of Klaus, hardly recognizes this version of  _ himself _ .

Not even with Anya had Nikolay felt so loved.

That thought brings him up short, and he wrests himself away from Klaus’ embrace at once. Nikolay’s head is spinning, spinning, spinning. Being with Klaus should not eclipse the memory of holding Anya’s slender form in his arms, or kissing her at the side of the lake underneath the light of the waxing moon, but it  _ does _ , and he is not willing to face what he already knows. Refuses to put a name to the powerful emotion that simmers beneath the surface of his skin and flares to life whenever Klaus looks at him, touches him, kisses him.

Klaus appears bewildered by this sudden turn of events but smiles at him anyway, lopsided and painfully sincere. Nikolay knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Klaus would lay down his life for him if it came to that. He would gladly ensure Nikolay’s survival over his own, as he had already done once before, back on the bridge. Nikolay had watched him make the decision; he’d seen the determination in the man’s eyes as he released Nikolay’s hand. The memory of it aches more than it should.

There is a horrible, shameful realization that has dwelled in the darkest nooks and crannies of Nikolay’s consciousness, shirking from the light of close examination. It chooses this moment to rear its ugly head, and the very awareness of it fills Nikolay with more shame than he’d once thought possible.

_ I’m not in love with Anya. _  Or, at least, not as much as he had believed. If he had loved her, if he had truly loved her in every sense of the word, he knows he would not feel this stirring in his breast for the man in front of him. It has nothing to do with Anya herself, but more so with the lack of one simple element; an element he finds, now, in the most unexpected of places, an element that he had unconsciously sought after for years and years until he’d met the very man who brought him to his knees with a single bullet:  _ reciprocity _ .

Anya and Nikolay both speak Russian, both enjoy each other’s company and found solace in sharing each other’s body; and yet, it is with Klaus that Nikolay feels known. They have fought tooth-and-nail, shell-and-bullet, lips-and-tongue. Klaus challenges him where Anya had not, and it sparks a primal compulsion within Nikolay, makes his heart sing and his blood boil. Something hot and fierce and thrilling arises within Nikolay whenever Klaus and he lock eyes—something hungry, that can only be appeased with the spilling of blood or, as it turns out, the baring of flesh. Nikolay knows that Klaus will never be sated of him, and he is beginning to understand that the feeling goes both ways. 

Klaus’ cheeks have flushed bright red, and his eyes are wide. Whatever he sees on Nikolay’s face, it has stunned him into silence. Nikolay admires the part of his swollen lips, watches the way Klaus’ pupils eat up the blue until his gaze is nothing but scorched earth. He wonders for a second if he looks like that too; like he has been consumed by something so much larger than himself.

Nikolay wants to reignite the kiss and is about to do it, too, when a sound comes filtering through the trees and the pit drops out of his stomach, dread taking its place.

“Hast du das gehört?”

The voice of a stranger, accompanied by muted shuffling and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot, all of it coming from somewhere nearby. Nikolay’s breath catches sharp in his throat as he determines that the approaching trajectory of the noises puts Klaus and him directly in their path. Klaus seems to have realized this as well. His soft expression has fallen and pure horror writhes beneath it, the blue tenderness in his eyes gone cold as ice.

_ There’s no way we can escape _ , Nikolay thinks. The voices will be upon them in a minute, maybe less. His hopes plummet, the dread thickening like black tar in his gut. 

Klaus springs into action. Scrambling for purchase on the mulch of leaves and soil, he uses the stick to haul himself to his feet, pulling at the front of Nikolay’s shirt and urging him upward as well. He’s growling, deep in his throat, as if he anticipates a fight.

Adrenaline kicks into Nikolay’s veins; the noise made by Klaus’ efforts was slight, but apparently not slight enough. The footsteps have stopped. The entire forest seems to be watching them with bated breath, waiting for something to happen.

“ _ Klaus _ ,” whispers Nikolay, inches away from collapsing on his weak, unsteady legs. Standing so quickly has caused the blood to rush to his head, the black-furred beast yowling its protests inside his skull. The world swims before his very eyes and he hears a distant roaring in his eardrums growing louder and louder. Klaus glances at him, then double-takes, alarm darkening his features. Nikolay must look horrible: he’s panting, gasping quietly for air, trying to pretend like his heart isn’t about to beat its way out of his chest; there are little patches of light bursting in the corners of his vision and he thinks that he is swaying on his feet. Either that or the world is swaying and he is standing still.

Hands grip underneath his armpits, steadying him. Klaus has pulled him closer and now they are leaning against each other like the trees they had sheltered under last night, shaking and trembling with the effort of keeping upright. The rustling starts back up again. Closer and closer, until Nikolay imagines he can see glimpses of familiar uniforms through the trees. Too close to make a run for it, unless they want to be gunned down like animals. 

A different voice, sounding closer than before. “Himmlich, was ist denn?”

So this is it. All their efforts, for naught. Nikolay presses against Klaus’ chest and blinks back the futile tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. A pervasive numbness has settled into his bones, cold and dense, and even the comforting warmth of Klaus’ arms cannot chase it away. This is it. They are going to be discovered and that’s the end of it. There’s no saving them.

“Ich schwöre, ich hab was gehört…” The footsteps have started up again, and they are headed right for the two men. Escape is impossible.

A hand nudges at his own. Nikolay raises his head and Klaus is already looking right at him, his scarred face betraying no fear. No shame, no panic; nothing but a resolute calm. As if he knew, all along, that this is how it would conclude for them. Nikolay takes a shuddery breath and entwines his fingers with Klaus’ because, at this point, what does he have to lose?

Smiling faintly, Klaus gives his hand a heartfelt squeeze. And, in the brief moment they have to stare into each other’s eyes before they are discovered, Nikolay thinks to himself with painful hindsight that, even though he is about to die, at least it will be at the side of somebody who loves him.

A new voice rings out, sounding gruffer than the previous two. The leader of the group, no doubt. “Ruhe! Sei auf der Hut. Halten Sie die Augen offen nach allem, was verdächtig ist.”

Nikolay swallows down all of the grief and anger swirling inside him. He squeezes Klaus’ hand right back, leveling the man with a determined expression of his own. If this is his last moment on earth, he is going to go out fighting. Grim-faced, Klaus nods, reflecting the same sentiment back at him. For once, their communication is faultless.

Turning his head to face the oncoming footsteps, Nikolay steels his resolve and prepares himself for the sight of German soldiers crashing through the thick foliage—

And he is met with a different sight entirely.

There is a lynx, stepping carefully through a clump of bushes in front of them. Klaus inhales sharply, just as shocked as Nikolay. The tawny creature looks up and affixes them both with a yellow stare. Something about its gaze is familiar, eerily so, but Nikolay cannot quite say what it is. Must be all the adrenaline, making him delirious. It blinks once, twice, and then the sound of boots crunching louder and louder towards them has it turning tail, darting off into the tangled thicket with unnatural speed.

As the lynx streaks away, the bushes rustling in its wake, the sound of the approaching soldiers changes direction. Someone unseen (the leader, judging by the sound of his voice) shouts something in German, and before he can fully comprehend what is happening Nikolay hears the heavy tramp of boots rushing in the same direction that the lynx had gone.

“Feuer Frei! Ausführung!  _ Ausführung! _ ”

Gunfire resounds through the woods, as does excited hollering from the soldiers. The noise almost drowns out the hammering of Nikolay’s own heartbeat in his ears. He flicks his eyes toward Klaus, only to find him already looking back. They share a moment of incredulous, insane hope.  _ Maybe, just maybe… _

Nikolay raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Klaus’ bandaged leg. Klaus stares back at him, then widens his gaze as he finally catches on, biting his lower lip and nodding furiously in answer.

They both glance in the direction they’d been heading, then back at each other with matching grins. Klaus looks just as he had when he’d challenged Nikolay to their duel on the aqueduct bridge, practically brimming with weaponized determination. His hand grips Nikolay’s even tighter than before, a few short squeezes serving as his response to the new challenge set before them. It’s do or die. They can either do this or stay here and await inevitable discovery.

Together, they turn towards Kraslice. Time is not moving properly, as it should: instead of being linear, Nikolay perceives glittering fragments of reality colliding and scraping against each other like the ricochet of crystalline tank shells. Echoing shots ring through the trees, shouted words of German rack up his pulse until he feels it throbbing in his very bones. The cloying scents of linden tree leaves and petrichor mingle in his nostrils, more suffocating than the strongest perfume. In his mouth, he tastes iron—the all-too-familiar tang coating his tongue where his teeth have split the flesh of his inner cheek. All these things he registers separately, slowly, in their own time.

The hollers and pounding footsteps of the German soldiers are far off in the distance. Klaus is gripping Nikolay’s hand hard enough to prevent the circulation from reaching his fingers. Around them, time crawls to a halt, suspended in place just for the two of them. Every second lasts for an eternity. 

Suddenly, the air is rended by a blood-curdling yowl. Something about the noise sounds far too  _ human  _ to belong to a creature of the wilderness, and it sends chills skittering down the length of Nikolay’s spine. The shrieking continues, growing louder and louder in pitch until it is cut gruesomely short by the crack of a gunshot. 

And then, they run.

Klaus nearly stumbles to the ground immediately, his injured leg proving itself a serious handicap. The severe lack of traction only adds to the difficulty (the rain-wet soil and rotting leaves have combined into an earthy sludge) but the adrenaline spurs both of them onward, gives them the temporary strength needed to overpower their physical limits.

With the horrid sound of the lynx’s dying scream still fresh in his mind, Nikolay runs, sucking in great gasps of air like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He disregards the sharp burning in his chest and focuses only on the pump of his legs as they go up and down, up and down, carrying him towards his freedom. Klaus’ hand is still interlaced with his own, a lifeline that he clutches with all his might.

They have to keep moving. Need to get out of the area fast, as fast as they possibly can, before the German soldiers finally gather their wits, before Nikolay hears the tramp of iron-rimmed jackboots approaching from behind; before the first shots thunder out into the air, and then… They need to run faster.

His lungs are burning like someone filled them with gasoline and tossed a lit match into his open mouth, and his feet are blistered beyond the point of pain. With Klaus barely keeping pace at his side, Nikolay sprints through the trees as branches still glistening with dew lash his exposed face. Distantly, he can make out fading German voices coming from behind them, but it is impossible to hear much more than that over his own bedraggled panting.

Soon the treeline begins to thin around them, the ground changing from soggy mulch to compact, stony soil. The only sounds are the ones they make, huffs of breath and sloppy, faltering footsteps as they slow their pace, glancing over their shoulders every so often just in case. 

Nikolay is winded and half-dead by the time they stumble to a halt several minutes later. Klaus’ leg buckles underneath him and Nikolay somehow manages to throw an arm out, intercepting him just as he’s about to collapse, and they cling to each other for balance as they try desperately to catch their breath. He listens to the sounds of the forest and is relieved not to hear a single whisper of German. There is nothing but their own panting and the subdued call of a bird from somewhere high up in one of the trees. Even the occasional rumbling of thunder has ceased.

“Ich hasse...meine verflucht Bein,” Klaus manages. He looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” Nikolay says, his fingers digging into Klaus’ ruined uniform. Klaus seems to catch the general gist of the remark and quirks a loopy, exhausted grin at Nikolay, his delight so contagious that Nikolay finds himself leaning into Klaus’ space and grinning right back at him. The man’s eyes are mesmerizing in their beauty, seastone blue interspersed with flecks of gold like water warmed by the sunlight.

Klaus’ gaze shifts just over the top of Nikolay’s shoulder and, without warning, his look of triumph is wiped clean off his face, replaced with wide-eyed shock. 

Nikolay whips around, readying himself for a fight. Instead, he is met with a sight he had only dreamt of seeing until now.

“Seht mal, Lichter. Ein Dorf! Es muss Kraslice!”

Nestled amidst rolling hills and silhouetted by woodland, each building lit up like a beacon in the night, their end goal lies before them. Kraslice, the scattering of white houses and tiny church steeple appearing more salvific than the pearlescent shores of Heaven itself with its gates swung wide to welcome Klaus and Nikolay with open arms. It takes Nikolay a moment or two before he realizes that the trickling sensation he feels is tears, flowing freely down from his eyes; it would have been embarrassing if he had not turned to see Klaus in the same exact state as him.

“Nikolay,” Klaus says plainly, and Nikolay does not even have time to respond before Klaus grabs his face in both hands and slants his mouth fervently against Nikolay’s own. 

Nikolay’s thoughts slam to a halt as if they have run headlong into a wall—his mind going blank in an instant, already overwhelmed by the flood of stimuli and burning with fever. Klaus’ lips move against his, a tongue curls inside Nikolay’s mouth, slick and hot. 

Maybe it is the lightheadedness of hunger, the screaming beast within his skull, or perhaps the situation itself, but that’s all it takes before Nikolay is surging into the kiss with equal desperation, clutching the man and pulling him closer, sobbing in the back of his throat and ignoring the way their faces smear together with mingled tears. It almost shakes him apart, vision blue and grey and blurry, leaving him with nothing to rely on but his sense of touch. He focuses on the soft feel of Klaus’ mouth and the wiry arms sliding around his ribcage, pulling him closer with what little strength remains in his body.

“Wir haben's geschafft. Nur mehr du und ich, du und ich, ja?” Klaus pants, stealing kiss after messy kiss. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are swollen, his skin mottled pink with exhilaration. The tattered remains of his once-pristine uniform hang from a single shoulder and leave much of his collarbone bare, exposing the wreath of bite marks around his neck. “Für immer, Nikolay, schwöre es. Sag meinen Namen. Sag mir, dass du mich brauchst, so wie ich dich brauche. Bitte, bitte—!”

“Stop talking and kiss me properly,  _ Jäger _ ,” says Nikolay. Then, feeling emboldened, he rotates his hips, wedging a knee between Klaus’ thighs with just enough pressure to tease a reaction out of the man. He’s not disappointed: Klaus moans, tossing his head back and shuddering as he clings to Nikolay for support. The sight sends a frisson of heat through Nikolay’s veins and he cannot stop his imagination from conjuring a detailed sketch of what Klaus might look like with a lot fewer clothes on right now.

_ This is insane _ , thinks Nikolay.  _ All of it, this whole thing. Him and me, and me and him. Purely insane. The war made us both lose our minds, and now we have damned each other to madness. _  But, if they are both equally damned, then surely there is no lower for them to sink? There is nothing now to keep Nikolay from kissing Klaus open-mouthed and relentlessly as he lays his claim on the man. 

“Ich gehöre dir,” Klaus says, breathless and needy.

Nikolay knows something is wrong even before the adrenaline ebbs from his system and profound exhaustion takes its place. The forest is changing, darkening; the shadows seeming to flicker and stretch the longer he looks at them. As loathe as he is to break their kiss, Nikolay is not given a choice: the black-furred beast has gouged his mind deeply with its claws and, now that he is no longer distracted with running and surviving, the agony of it hits him like a sledgehammer, nearly bringing him to his knees.

“Klaus,” he says, his voice reduced to ashes. The man makes a noise of confusion in the back of his throat and Nikolay chases after it, pressing another kiss to Klaus’ parted lips. His vision is swimming, spots of light bursting behind his heavy eyelids; at first, he had believed it to be his arousal, but then the dizziness had kicked in, and now he is swaying violently on his feet.

“ _ Nikolay! _ ” 

Without warning, there are hands cupping either side of his face, and Klaus begins asking him a barrage of frantic questions one after the other. Nikolay does not even attempt to try and parse through them, not while he’s this weak and weary. Instead, he continues his fight to stay conscious, pushing all of his remaining energy to the forefront of his mind.

The fatigue proves too great. He tries blinking away the bursts of light, but his senses are failing him one by one, the world dissolving beneath him. His surroundings are rapidly swallowing themselves up, like a snake eating its own tail, and though Nikolay can barely discern the rapid movement of Klaus’ mouth or his panic-stricken expression, he notices that there are fresh tears streaming down the man’s cheeks, trickling along the carved lines of his scars and glistening like veins of molten silver.

Nikolay opens his mouth to say something, anything, to reassure Klaus that there's no need to cry anymore— _ we did it, we made it, we’re safe, please stop looking at me like that _ —but his voice is lost and he cannot so much as utter a single word. 

The best he can do is muster a shaky smile and bring a hand up to cradle Klaus’ tear-stained face in the curve of his palm, holding himself in place until the blinding patches of light become too powerful to resist any longer. His knees give out underneath him at the same time that his ruined mess of a mind finally caves underneath the weight of the angry, black-furred creature that has resided in his skull for so long. 

Right as everything vanishes into empty, white obscurity, he registers a thin pair of arms wrapping around him, holding him upright. The faintest trace of pipe smoke is the last inkling of comfort Nikolay has before the fever finally swallows him whole.


End file.
